


Debra Morgan: Season 2

by Bone_Dry



Series: Debra Morgan: The Series [3]
Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-13 01:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 80
Words: 181,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bone_Dry/pseuds/Bone_Dry
Summary: Deb narrates s2: Still reeling from her near death at the hands of Brian Moser, Debra Morgan returns to Homicide, only to find herself quickly embroiled in the investigation of Miami’s new bogeyman— the Bay Harbor Butcher. Yet as the lurid details, and her involvement with the head of the task force, mount, Deb eventually finds some stability in the chaos.





	1. Blame Me

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: If you’re wondering what this fic is, it’s basically episode inserts, between scenes, episode bridges, vignettes, etc. all oriented toward trying to construct a cohesive narrative for Deb’s side of the series. S2 has a lot of missed potential for her, and though it’s clear why— she wasn’t even the deuteragonist of the series yet —that doesn’t change how I feel about it. So this project is my second large-scale effort to completely redirect the spotlight onto her, which is where I’d much rather it be.  
>   
> It's not really necessary to have read my take on s1 to understand what's going on here, but it might help since they're cohesive and I reference it, especially everything related to the ITK attack.  
>   
> Quick clerical note: s2 has a lot of date problems, especially from Deb’s side of things, especially in the first couple eps. In order to make it make sense for her stuff, my calendar for the early eps differs from canon dates, but it evens out somewhere around 2.04. This basically doesn't matter at all but I'm noting it anyway in case for some reason you do the math on my dates.  
>   
> Actually, s2 has a lot of logistical problems/holes, but I’ll address those in later notes as they come up.

 

__

_Blame Me  
_ _Setting: Pre-Season_

* * *

_Sharon A. Wheeler, M.D._

_Practice of Psychiatry_

I tap my heel once on the laminate, continue turning my phone over and over in my hands as I glance away from the door again, look out the blinds at the condos across Biscayne Bay. Down below, sunlight bounces off a couple boats on the water and the cars backed up on the causeway. There's not a cloud in the sky.

Another picture fucking perfect Miami day.

Yeah, whatever.

My gaze flicks back to the door.

_Sharon A. Wheeler, M.D._

_Practice of Psychiatry_

It's...

I look down, check my watch.

9:22.

I've still got a few minutes.

I tap my foot again a single time, shift in my seat, settle back into exactly the same position as before. It's my fourth time sitting outside this office in three weeks, my fourth time using the back elevator to get up here. So far I've managed to avoid being seen by anyone I really give a shit about, as well as the ones that I don't. Still can't even convince myself to have a conversation with Marty the fucking Cuban food truck guy.

Even if that is pathetic.

Back out the window, back over the bay.

It's been a month. Over a month. A month three days ago since what happened happened and everything just fell the fuck apart. Now I'm parked here outside a psychiatrist's office waiting so a near-stranger can probe and poke at my feelings some more. Before the close of session one she told me I was displaying early symptoms of PTSD, gave me some mindfulness exercises and a script for an anti-anxiety med, told me to come back Friday.

I glance left, make eye contact for half a second with a janitor before looking away again. He keeps walking with his cart. My gaze drifts back to the door.

_Sharon A. Wheeler, M.D._

_Practice of—_

The door opens.

“I'll see you next week,” someone I don't recognize says as he pulls it all the way open. He doesn’t really look in my direction as he heads off, and my attention returns to the half-open door before he’s cleared the hallway.

“Debra,” the owner of the placard I keep reading says as she appears. She has that look on her face already. “Good morning.”

 _Is it?_ I want to say as I get up, shoving my phone in my bag and throwing it over my shoulder. “Morning,” I echo instead, sneaking a glance at my watch. 9:30, right on the dot.

Her face is still locked in Grief Counselor mode as she moves aside to let me into the room. I glance around on autopilot as I walk in. The place looks pretty much the same as it did last week, except there are fresh flowers on the table and a small stack of books on her desk.

She shuts the door behind me, and I stop where I stand. Silently, I watch as Wheeler takes her seat across from the couch, but I don’t move to follow suit. The anger I’ve barely been suppressing is already bubbling up, spilling over. “You catch the news yesterday?” I ask aggressively, as if, somehow, it’s her fault.

She studies me for a beat. And even though I suspect she does, “What news?” she asks.

I smile humorlessly. “Apparently I was _in league_ with the Ice Truck Killer,” I say. I wish I had something to throw at her. Instead I push back my hair, cross my arms, look away. “Pascal’s inquiry into me must’ve had a paper trail, and some fucker at the _Herald_ took advantage of the Sunshine law and got copies, decided it would make a good story. Only they left out the part where I was cleared, because why have any respect for me or the department?”

She leans back in her seat. “I’m sorry,” she says unhelpfully.

“Yeah?” I look at her just long enough to find her eyes, then away again. “I thought this was all going away. I haven’t had to see his face or my face plastered all over the news for awhile. I was starting to hope that maybe the media’s found some new bullshit to latch onto, but here it is again.” I blow out a breath, walk to the window. For a long moment I stare blankly out at the water. “I don’t know what’s worse— having everyone believe I was his accomplice or that I was just this dipshit cop he seduced and tried to murder. I can barely leave the fucking apartment anymore without having someone gawping at me.”

The silence stretches on for a bit. I don’t know if she’s waiting for me to continue, but I don’t have any desire to anyway. Finally she says, softly, “Debra, you know we can’t control the media cycle or public perception. What’s happening right now isn’t your fault, and it’ll pass.”

“Right, it’ll pass.” I turn to glare at her. “And what the hell am I supposed to do until then? Hide? Stick my fucking nose in the air?”

“What do you want to do?”

Jump out the window. Tunnel thirty feet underground. Strangle that fucking reporter. “I want to move on. But it’s hard to do that when I can’t go five minutes without seeing his face somewhere.” I swallow. “I stopped going to the gym. That was one of the last places I could stand going.”

“Why?” I can feel her gaze on me.

Outside, four people on jet skis rush from under the causeway. It must be fucking freezing but they’re out there anyway. “It was hard enough before. I think the guy at check in must’ve told the whole staff who I am or something. They stare at me. I don’t need to wait until one of them decides to talk to me.” I exhale. “After this I’m meeting Dexter at this guy’s apartment to pick up his treadmill.”

“So you’ve decided to hide?”

I turn back to her. “What?”

“That’s how you’ve decided to control the situation? You’re going to hide?”

I pause. “Yeah,” I affirm, walking over to the couch. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” I plop down and cross my legs, recross my arms. “At least until this blows over.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

I shrug at her. “I’m okay with that.”

She adjusts the notebook on her lap just slightly. I’m sure there’s more she’d like to say, but I don’t want to hear about it. I clear my throat, try to think of something far away from me or the ITK. “Dexter started bowling last week,” is what comes up for some reason. “I didn't even know he knew how to bowl. Who knows, maybe it's just his way of giving me some space. Or maybe he's just getting some space for himself.”

“Have you gone with him?”

“No.” I squish closer to the couch arm.

“You don't like bowling?”

“No, it's not that.” I wish I'd never brought it up. “It's just... it's a work team. They're all people from the job. I don't really want to see them until I get off disability, come back to work.”

“You still haven't talked to anyone from work?”

“No.” I shake my head, remember that's not quite true. “Well, Angel came by the apartment to give Dexter a shirt and a pair of bowling shoes. We talked for a few minutes.”

“How did that go?”

I shrug. “Fine. It went...” I don't know. “It was nice to see him again, talk shop. He just got put back into the rotation.” Somehow I say that as if him being out of it had nothing to do with me. I push the thought away. “He's the one who started the bowling team. I think part of the reason he came by was to try to recruit me.”

“But you said no?”

“Yeah. Spending three nights a week with my brother and Masuka and Jimmy the Night Shift Guy sounds like a special kind of hell.” I pause. “You know Masuka, right? Short little pervy freak who does forensics for Homicide?”

Something that looks like an emotion almost passes across her face before it's promptly swallowed up by her professional veneer. “Yes.”

I grin at her. “Then you know what I'm talking about.”

“Unfortunately,” she offers after a beat, almost smiling. Almost.

I glance away, think for a second. She doesn’t interrupt me. “But maybe I could stand a night of it,” I say eventually. “After I go back.”

“You still think you’re ready to go back to work?”

“If I could I'd pick up a shift today.” I exhale. “I just want my fucking life back.”

“You mean your job?”

“No, I mean my life.” Her correction annoys me. “I don't have any friends who aren't on the force anymore, and right now I can't even look at them. I'm sick of being asked how I'm doing.”

“And you think going back to work will change how people see you?”

“At least I wouldn't be on fucking disability.”

This time she's the one to pause. Then, “Would you mind if I asked you something?”

I feel my eye twitch slightly, cock a brow. “Knock yourself out.”

“Do you believe you shouldn't be on disability?”

Several seconds tick by. I don't know how to answer that, and it kind of pisses me off that she asked. “I don't know,” I say.

She sits there waiting with her Go Ahead expression.

I feel my face flush slightly. “He never actually...” My stomach rolls over. I swallow. “He never actually got around to chopping me up. There's nothing fucking wrong with me. At least, not physically.” Another flush. I look away, find that ugly porcelain elephant in the bookcase across the room and just stare at it.

“It makes me feel damaged,” I say eventually. “I know how it has to look to everyone. I look damaged to other people, to my coworkers, to my friends, to my brother. It's bad enough that everyone knows what happened to me, that half the station saw me on that table and the other half have probably seen the pictures of the scene.” I swallow again, dangerously close to letting myself go back there. “The longer I'm away the harder it's going to be to come back. But even if I went back today I don't know if anyone's going to be able to look at me without thinking of the Ice Truck Killer. About how much of a fucking moron I was.”

I still can't say his fucking name.

Her voice floats in from the left, “Do you really believe any of your coworkers hold what happened to you against you?”

“Against me?” I look back at her. “No. But I know what they must think of me. I know what _I'd_ think of me.”

“Do you still blame yourself?”

I blow out a breath, set my jaw, look back at the elephant. Every week the same goddamn question.

“You think the department blames you?”

My molars press together, apart. “I don't know.”

“Is that why you're afraid to see them?”

A beat or two passes where I just grind my teeth. “Yes,” I say eventually. And then I don't say anything for a long time. Because it's true and because it scares me. Because none of it should've happened to begin with.

Batista in surgery, his kid and half the squad and me and his ex-wife waiting outside the ER doors. Monique Santos gift-wrapped in Santa's Cottage, her head sticking out of a wreath, her limbs tied up in ribbon. Fred Harvey rolling beside me in the trunk of his own car.

None of it would've happened if I'd just fucking figured it out.

“I should've known,” I hear myself say.

“Known what?”

I look in her direction again. “That the man I was sleeping with was the Ice Truck Killer.”

“Is that how you feel about the other women Brian Moser victimized?”

“I don't know,” I say. No. I don't know. Why can't she just leave it the fuck alone?

Her gaze still hasn't left my face. “You said you knew one of his victims, right?”

“Yeah.” And now I wish I'd never told her that. “I knew her from when I was working undercover for Vice.”

“What was her name?”

An image of the way he arranged her body parts on the ice pops into my head. “Sherry.” I press my tongue into a tooth. “Her name was Sherry Taylor.”

“Do you blame her for what happened to her?”

I don't say anything. It's not the same and she's pissing me off.

“Do you blame Sherry for being murdered?”

Sherry was probably fucked up on something when she got into that car. “No.” All he probably did was flash some paper and open the door.

“Then why do you blame yourself?”

I feel something like fury. “Because I'm a cop. Because he got me into bed without having to pay me first. Because he told me he loved me and I fucking believed it. Because I agreed to _marry_ him. I let him...” I trail off, heart squeezing. He's still a second away, a blink, fingers running down my skin.

“You're not willing to forgive yourself?”

The question punctures the memory, and I find myself glaring at her. “No.”

I take in a breath, let it go slowly.

“I just need to move on,” I say, tired suddenly. Because of course I still can't sleep for shit. “I just need to go back to work.” I just need you to clear me. “I don't need to keep dredging it up. There's not a fucking thing either of us can say to undo what happened.”

At some point the Grief Counselor face got replaced with something just a tad stiffer. “And you believe you'll be able to move on without forgiving yourself?”

“Yes.” I move to adjust my watch, change my mind and get up instead. For half a second I can't think why and I grab an excuse out of the air, “I need some water.”

“Alright.”

She doesn't watch me as I head across the room for the water cooler and pull a Dixie cup out of the stack. I take longer than I need to filling the thing up, drink it slowly. Fill it again. Drink it again. Glare out the half-shaded window at the bay.

I don't fucking want to talk about this again, to keep beating this horse. This _dead_ horse. He killed himself in his own murder rack, left himself hanging there for the world to find. For me to find. It's enough to be stuck going over it every second that I'm alone without having to schedule a special hour a week for it. The endless introspection is only succeeding at driving my head further and further up my ass, and I can barely manage to take a breath anymore.

The Ice Truck Killer— Brian Moser —is dead. I'm not.

And maybe one day I can get enough distance from that to make half a blessed fuck's bit of difference.

I crumple the cup, throw it away.


	2. Treadmill

__

_Treadmill  
_ _Setting: Pre-Season_

* * *

Sometimes...

The thought slips away.

Ten beats later it comes back.

Sometimes I think...

I hit the up arrow, clear my throat, keep right on running.

Sometimes I think the neighbors probably want to fucking kill me.

I pass another .10, .15, .25. My throat dried up ten minutes ago but I don't care enough yet.

I grab the remote out of the cup holder, point it at the TV and hit Enter. The overlay that pops up tells me it's 12:49. I blow out a breath, drop the thing back into the holder, blow out another breath. Quickly lose interest in the TV and whatever's on it. It's muted anyway.

Where the hell is he?

And because I can still breathe I hit the up arrow again. Chills are running through my legs.

Don't care.

_Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!_

Okay, now...

( _fuck_ )

This is good.

I keep going.

2.22, 2.76, 3.43, 4.16

Time's stopped meaning anything. How long's it been?

Grab the remote again.

There's some chick with a vacuum cleaner on the screen.

Enter.

1:08.

Throw the remote back in.

Back to nothing.

Something almost nervous. The fact that the blinds are open. Of course, I left them that way for a reason. Same reason I left my fucking iPod on the bed.

I hit up again.

Listen to my feet. Listen for the door. Forget to listen.

_Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!_

5 comes and goes.

I'm starting to completely lose my breath.

Sweat dripping down my face.

Can't hold onto a thought.

5.49

Something moves. On the right.

I flinch, almost fall over myself and fly off the fucking thing. Hop onto the sides and hit the stop button. Hear the motor power down.

By then the lock's already turning. I watch the door open, stop abruptly at the chain.

“Deb!”

My legs are jello as I hop off the treadmill and move from the bedroom, taking my bottle with me. I suck down some water between breaths as I walk to the door. Annoyance is the first emotion to penetrate the adrenaline as I see a sliver of my brother's face through the two-inch crack. My mouth opens as I let my hand with the bottle drop to my side. “Where the fuck were you?”

“At work,” Dexter says. “Would you open the door?”

At work?

I shut the door in his face, pull out the door chain, open it again. When I do he's still just standing there, his work purse hanging from his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says, moving past me. “What are you doing up?”

“I couldn't sleep.” I watch him drop his bag, set his keys and wallet on his desk. And it's half true: I didn't try to begin with.

I drink more water. My heart rate's coming down. I still feel jittery as shit though.

“So you were working out instead?” He's already grabbing the dirty napkin and the tinfoil I forgot to clean off the desk earlier, a water bottle, the empty orange juice carton.

“Yeah.” I blow out a breath. He walks past me, throws my mess away. When I look past him I see my clothes thrown all over the couch. It's my turn over there tonight so I didn't bother fixing it. “Not like there's a whole hell of a lot else to do.”

He gives me a pointed look as he plucks a beer bottle off the counter and tosses it. “Did you leave the apartment today?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I cross my arms. “I went to the store.” Pinch my jaw as he reaches for the paper toweling. “I cleaned the fucking counter.”

“You did?”

I just glare at him. Eventually he looks up, but by then he's already wiped the thing off. “What'd you get at the store?” he asks.

“I don't know.” I shrug. “Milk, beer, orange juice...” I take another drink of water, set the bottle on the counter, “another one of those chicken parmesans.”

He throws the paper towel away and finally stands still. His face looks a shade below exasperated.

And despite myself I still feel like I'm surfing a thirteen espresso high. Neither the beer nor the second run has done anything to take the edge off. “How was work?”

“It was fine. The lieutenant's got me going through backlog with Masuka.”

“Backlog kept you there past midnight?” I ask.

“That and the homicide Batista's working.”

I want to ask more, grill him a bit, because I don't know if I believe him. Recently he's started coming back later and later, and I'm starting to suspect it's me, that he's avoiding come home. And that pisses me off— though whether it's at him or myself I don't know.

Instead I drink more water, drain the last of it.

“Were you alright today?”

“Yeah.” I set the bottle back down.

“Is that why you were running at midnight?”

I feel myself bristle. “I didn't know where you were.” For a second I keep glaring at him, and then I turn abruptly and head for the couch, drop beside my purse and a pile of discarded clothes. Exhale.

Dexter doesn't follow me. I watch him open the fridge and disappear inside it before I look away, pull out my hair tie, flick it toward the coffee table. My hair is sweaty and crimped where the band was. I fluff it up, rub my damp scalp. Wipe away some of the sweat on my forehead and my collar with my shirt. I’m dripping slightly.

The nervousness is creeping back. The rest of the way I spent the afternoon before I floored it back and hid here behind a locked door.

I wish I had more water.

“Dex,” I say, and I hear the rummaging pause. “Can you get me some water?”

The rummaging resumes. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.” I cross my legs, pull my hair to one side. I'm hot, and my thoughts are rapidly converging back. Maybe I should stand up. Maybe I shouldn't.

The fridge door shuts. “Did you buy anything that wasn't liquid?” my brother asks as he walks to me with a glass of water in one hand and several pieces of salami and cheese in the other.

“Yeah,” I say, taking the glass from him and eying the salami. “That chicken parmesan thing.”

“Why did you buy three cartons of orange juice?”

“Because we kept running out.” Because I was jittery. “Would you stop with the fucking inquisition?”

He holds up his hands, plops beside me. Starts wrapping the salami in a piece of cheese.

“Give me one of those,” I say, not able to take it after three seconds.

“This is all that's left,” he sighs.

“I'll go back to the store tomorrow. Or... today.” No I won't. “Come on.”

He scowls but peels off one of the two remaining slices of salami and a piece of cheese, hands it to me.

“Thanks.”

For a bit we both just sit here and eat. Dexter throws his feet up onto the coffee table, slumps into the couch. I finish the salami and cheese, recross my legs, set the glass on my knee. The urge to speak is becoming overwhelming.

“I went to his place today,” I admit finally.

“Whose place?”

I look at him, arch a brow.

“Oh.” And after a beat he sits up straighter. “Brian Moser.”

“Yeah.” Suddenly it feels too late in the night for another introspective jaunt down Fucked Up Lane.

“Why?” He takes another bite of his carefully-folded salami.

“I don't know.” I shrug. “Something about facing my demons.” I meet his blank stare. “Some shit the shrink said.”

“Oh,” he says again. “Did it help?”

I snort. “No.” Sitting there in my car across the street I felt like a voyeur. It's not as if I really spent much time at all at his place, for reasons I’m still trying, and failing, to justify. But we'd still been there together. And the last time I was there was to pay my respects to his cold, stiff, bloody body— hanging there as it was in the same rack he used to string up his other victims.

I don't know how long I sat there before it scared me too much to stay.

“Work on anything interesting besides the backlog?” I ask, sitting back.

“Same old, same old. Reports, blood, more reports.” He finally finishes the salami.

“You getting along any better with Doakes?” I can't remember the last time I saw my old partner. Probably not since that night at the hospital.

Something slight passes through his face, goes away in a second. “Yeah, we're getting along fine.”

He's full of shit. “Like you fine or normal people fine?”

His brows fold. “I don't know what that means.”

“Mm,” I grunt, drink some water. As I set the glass back on my knee I glance at my watch. 1:36. Shit. “I need to take a shower, go to bed. I've got the fucking shrink tomorrow.”

He looks at his own watch, exhales. “I've got to go to court.”

“Guess neither of us planned our night very well.” I set the glass on the coffee table and get up.

“Yeah, I guess not.” He takes his legs off the table, sits forward.

I look down at him. I wanted to ask him something but now I can't remember what it was. Instead I finally notice the cargo pants and long-sleeved shirt. I don't recognize the outfit. “Were you wearing that when you left?”

He gives me a look like I'm crazy.

“Nevermind.” I shake my head. “I'm going. Night.”

“Night,” he echoes, still looking confused.

I escape into the bathroom, shut the door behind me. When I glance in the mirror my hair looks damp and messy and most of the liner on my eyes has rubbed off. I look about as tired as I feel.

Sighing, I turn on the shower, start stripping out of my clothes.


	3. Buzzed

__

_Buzzed  
_ _Setting: Pre-Season_

* * *

 

The door is slightly ajar.

I'm alone on the porch. It's the middle of the night and I'm in Coral Gables. There are lights wrapped around the railing and the door, unlit. Fake spiderwebs and a rubber bat hang from the roof. There's a sign in the window but I can't seem to read it.

Dispatch crackles on my shoulder. Not talking to me.

There are no lights on in the house. The chick who called 911 is sitting on the hood of her car out front, smoking a cigarette. Or she was when I left her. The other car is sitting outside the garage, covered with leaves, which is weird because the lawn looks pretty manicured.

I unclip my flashlight, use it to tap open the door. It’s unlocked.

“Hello?” I click on the light. There's a pumpkin sitting on the kitchen counter. There are flies on the pumpkin.

“Hello? Miami Metro Police Department.”

There's a large and very ugly painting of the Eiffel Tower in the mouth of the hallway. The carpeting is beige and old and there's trash everywhere.

There's a fly on the Eiffel Tower.

I walk toward it. I feel kind of sick. Kind of afraid. On the wall next to the painting is a light switch. I flip it with the flashlight.

“Hello? Is anyone here?”

I'm drawn to the door at the end of the hall. It's the only one that's shut.

“Hello?” I knock on it with the flashlight. The fear is mounting, clogging up my chest. Because I remember. I know what happened.

I open the door. The flies that were on the other side erupt off it. They're already landing on me as I reach for the light switch, stop halfway there.

She's hanging from the door three yards away. In the flashlight's beam her face is purple, puffed up like a marshmallow, and covered with flies. Eyes milky white, flat like deflated balloons. “Irony,” her shirt reads, “the opposite of wrinkly.”

My heart crawls up my throat, gags me. When I reach for my comm I can't seem to speak.

 _Daroco Avenue,_ I keep repeating to myself. _I'm on the corner of Daroco and 42nd and I've got a 1045._

There's an open notebook sitting on the dresser. It's the only thing between us. I don't see a pen.

 _Daroco Avenue,_ I'm caught on it, unable to speak it. _413 Daroco._

_Irony: The opposite of wrinkly._

I'm staring at the shirt. I know what it says but I can't seem to read it. The flies are swarming around us, bouncing drunkenly off us, and the room seems somehow smaller.

_1045._

The door is shut behind me.

The flies are building. I put my hand over my face to stop them from flying into my mouth or up my nose. I imagine what it would be like to accidentally swallow them, to have them crawl their way inside me.

Her legs are livid. She's wearing cream-white shorts. Her chin is sunken into her chest, mouth closed, dark hair falling everywhere. Dried blood running down her lips. Maggots in her ears.

I can't breathe. I turn to open the door, but I can't get a grip on the handle. I don't have my radio. I realize I never had it.

My heart is beating hard. My muscles are tense, stiff. It doesn't seem like I'm standing, like I can move.

 _I need help here!_ I'm trying to tell my comm. _She's dead! She fucking hung herself!_

There are flies crawling up my arms and landing in my hair. When I turn back the air is thick with them. I can't seem to move to swat them. The room is dissolving to a point, and all I can see is the dead grad student. I think I hear sirens. Or a voice.

“Deb.”

I'm drowning in a swarm of small, buzzing, metallic bodies. She left a note on the table. I remember reading it, but the words are swimming and jumbled up. I remember she found out her husband was fucking around and she had a miscarriage—

“Deb.”

Something contacts my arm and I jolt up. Reality crashes down.

Dexter's leaning over me. His hand is on my arm.

I'm twisted in the sheets. I can feel them knotted around my legs and my shoulders, and I smell sweat.

“Bad dream?” my brother asks. He's wearing work clothes. The apartment's dark.

_Irony: The opposite of wrinkly._

I'm half asleep and the panic is still thumping in my throat. “What?” I say. I need to get out of the sheets. I sit up and kick them off me, focus on breathing. It takes an inordinate amount of effort to resist clapping my hand back over my face. My eyes hurt.

“Are you alright?” he asks when I’ve finally succeeded in throwing the sheets to the other end of the couch.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat and rearrange my shirt. “That was just kind of fucked up.” When isn’t it lately? I check my wrist for my watch, but it’s not there. “What time is it?”

He sits in the chair opposite me, checks his own watch. “7:36.”

Fuck, so I’ve been asleep five or six hours. I sit up a little more, rub my face.

“I brought dinner.” He gestures towards the kitchen. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I just got a pizza.”

“I’m not really hungry,” the reply is somewhat automatic. I’m not awake enough to know if I’m hungry. All I know is I can’t stop thinking about those fucking flies.

“It’s got pineapple and sausage on it.”

The somewhat hopeless look on his face finally registers with me. He’s trying and I’m being standoffish. “I guess I could eat,” I amend.

“Good.”

He starts to get up, but I hold up a hand. “Sit. I’ll get it.”

He settles back but gives me a look as I rise. “Get some plates too.”

I grimace at him. “Of course.”

I hear a slight harrumph as I walk to the kitchen and open a cabinet. As I reach for a couple plates I take a breath, let it out slowly. I’m not sure where that nightmare came from. I haven’t thought about that house in years, let alone in full surround sound. Maybe my brain was just sick of rehashing the same old script night after night: Rudy strangling me, hog tying me with duct tape, and stabbing me to death, rinse and repeat. Or sometimes I just drown.

I plop the plates unceremoniously onto the pizza box, walk the stack over to the coffee table. Setting it down, I look at Dexter. “Want a beer?”

He nods. “Yeah. And a couple napkins.”

I’m half tempted to point out the pointlessness of his effort considering the disaster I’ve managed to turn this apartment into since his last cleaning, but I don’t. Whatever. He’s the one who wants to use plates. He can clean them.

I grab the beers and the napkins and a bottle opener, then head back, set them down, drop onto the couch. I still feel weirded out but now a little annoyed too. I didn’t manage to sleep last night even though it was my turn on the bed. I dragged myself out here to read and watch TV after Dexter left for work. I’m not sure when I finally succumbed, but I wish I hadn’t.

“You’ve got your meeting tomorrow with Pascal, right?” Dexter asks casually, as if reading my thoughts, as he opens the pizza box.

“Right.” I watch him set a slice onto a plate, which he then holds out to me. And even though I still don’t feel particularly hungry, I take it.

“Nervous?”

“No.” I don’t know whether that’s true or not. I poke at a piece of pineapple that fell onto the plate. “Maybe. But the shrink said she thinks I’m ready to go back, and Pascal sounded open to it.” I’m still not sure if Wheeler did a line of coke or something before our last session, but I wasn’t going to question it. She did condemn me to at least another couple sessions after my reinstatement, but as long as I’m back on the job I couldn’t give a shit.

“And you’re sure you’re ready?”

“I’m sure.” I lose interest in the pineapple, set the plate on my knee. I reach for a beer as Dexter stuffs half his slice into his mouth. “I’m more than sure.” I pop the cap, then make absolutely no effort to retrieve it from where it falls on the floor, ignoring his twitch. I pause before drinking. “I need this, Dex,” I say. “The only one who knows that more than me is you.”

He watches me as I tip the bottle back but doesn’t reply, just takes another bite.

For awhile we don’t say anything. Eventually I start eating the pizza, and it’s good but I can hardly get halfway through a slice. Whether it’s because of the dream or the meeting tomorrow, I have no idea. But the beer I drink.

“Want another one?” I ask, getting up again.

Dexter nods.

I go over to the fridge and retrieve the whole box. While I’m there I spot a lime sitting in the otherwise empty sandwich compartment, and I pull that out too. I grab a pairing knife from the butcher block before making my way back to the couch, where I immediately start carving into it in my hand. After cracking open the next beer and shoving a wedge down the neck, I lean back and drink gratefully. Distantly, I’m reminded of Dad’s liquid dinners, but I push away the thought before I can decide how I feel about it.

“Were you dreaming about him again?” Dexter asks suddenly, quietly, before I’ve gotten even a third of the way through the bottle.

I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. “No,” I say, then drink again. “For once.”

He takes a sip of his own beer. “What then?”

I swallow, exhale as the gas rises back up. “It was more like a memory than anything…” I trail off, set the beer on my leg. “It was one of my first suicide scenes back when I was on patrol. I was the one who found her, called it in. I guess in retrospect it’s not even close to being the most fucked-up thing I’ve seen.” I drink again.

His brows fold. “Why would you dream about that?”

I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

For a second he looks at his beer, then at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I will be,” I reply. “After tomorrow.” I drink again. And maybe because I haven’t eaten anything except those couple bites of pizza today I’m already starting to feel a little buzzed. “It’s gonna be great.”

I don’t bother to gauge whether he believes me or not, or whether I even believe myself. I just take another drink.


	4. Reinstated

__

_Reinstated  
_ _Setting: Pre-Season_

* * *

I tap the tab for soda water, fill my cup up to the top. When it’s full I take a long drink, refill it, add a little more ice. Crunching on a cube, I turn to see they’ve found a table near the windows.

By the time I get over there, Batista’s already popped the cap off his cream soda and has started chugging it down. Doakes’ bottle is sitting untouched, already sweating onto the table, while its owner glowers out the window.

“I grabbed us some napkins,” Batista says, setting down his soda. “And some extra sauce.”

“Thanks.” I smile at him and sit down. He smiles back, setting his wrists on the table.

A half an hour ago I was sitting in Pascal’s office. And even though we’d talked before I got there, I was still nervous as we sat there with LaGuerta’s old desk between us. I’d thought of a hundred different reasons that she might delay my reinstatement, or even deny it altogether, thought up a hundred churlish responses, but instead she just asked me if I was sure. After we talked for awhile we got up and shook hands, and she welcomed me back. And just like that, it ended. As of Monday, I’m off leave. I can finally start putting this whole thing behind me.

As I was walking out of her office I ran into Doakes and Batista, and they invited me to join them for lunch. Five minutes later I was sitting passenger side as my old partner pulled out of the lot, exchanging small talk, like everything was normal, like nothing ever happened, like I’d never left.

At least, as much as it could.

“It’s gonna be a relief to have you back, Morgan,” Batista says. “It’s been way too quiet around the station without you.”

I feel a slight flush of embarrassment, resist the urge to hide behind my cup. “I’d only been there a couple months,” I say, waving him off.

“Well, we got used to you.”

“He’s right,” Doakes rumbles. “You were the flesh blood the department’s needed.”

I want to ask why, what makes him say that, but the burn rising up my face stops me. Instead I just say, “Thanks,” take a long sip of water. And as I drink I find myself studying him again, briefly.

Something’s changed between me and my old partner, something I can’t really define. I haven’t seen or talked to him since that night at the hospital. And maybe part of it is that I’m still angry about what he said about my brother, whatever the hell it was he was insinuating just moments after Dexter saved my life.

But the other part of it is that he was one of the only people who saw me on that table, him and LaGuerta, and I still feel so fucking ashamed of it.

But the tension feels more like background noise than anything, kind of distant and unimportant. Ignorable. And if there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s that Doakes isn’t going to mention it. It’d be way too fucking touchy feely for the hard-ass, ex Ranger.

Thank god.

“So how has it been going around the station?” I ask when I finally set my cup down. “What’s your take on Pascal?”

Batista shrugs. “She’s kind of hands off. Spends a lot of time with LaGuerta.”

“She seems distracted,” Doakes says, reaching for his soda. “I don’t think she was prepared for the change in politics coming downtown.”

“That’s right,” I say, fishing out a memory. “She was transferred in.”

“Yeah. From Fort Lauderdale.” He unscrews the cap, takes a sip. “She was promoted after she took a bullet while protecting a bunch of civilians. That gas station stand off.”

I nod. “Yeah, I remember.” That was right around the time I’d started the Brandy gig for Vice. I think I was up in Hollywood when it happened. I remember overhearing the news from a radio in a botanica where I’d been buying myself some crappy lunch. It was a pretty big deal— a sergeant getting shot, one of the guys responsible dead, the other dragged into custody.

“She was off for like five months or something,” Batista says as Doakes drinks again. “Came back, got promoted, was happy to sit behind a desk. Or so I hear.”

For some reason I can’t think of how to respond to that. “Oh,” is what I come up with. I drink some more water, exhale as the gas pushes up my throat.

“But like I said,” Batista continues. “She’s pretty hands off. She’s been easy to work with.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say, leaving the rest of it unsaid. I’m honestly relieved that it wasn’t LaGuerta sitting between me and reinstatement. If it had been, I’m not sure I’d ever have been able to come back, now or any other day.

And now that I’m thinking about my old LT, I can’t help but grin. “So how is LaGuerta taking being back in the pen, anyway?”

“Actually, pretty well. Surprisingly well. Maybe staying is just her way of giving Matthews the finger.”

Doakes grunts, and I glance at him. I think he’s the only one in the station who truly considers her a friend. But whatever it is he’s thinking, it doesn’t look like he wants to share.

“But we are talking eventual hostile takeover, right?” I lean back. “There’s no way LaGuerta’s gonna let Pascal continue warming her seat.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing.” Batista shrugs. “If she is, I’m staying the hell away from it.”

Doakes smiles with all his usual surliness. “Maria’s been eying the directorship for as long as I’ve known her. No one is getting between her and that ladder.”

I want to ask him to elaborate, but I already know that he’s not going to say any more. And, frankly, I’ve never really had any desire to get involved in department politics anyway. Like Batista, I’m just going to stay the fuck out of whatever inevitably happens.

Though that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna savor getting to watch her kowtow to somebody else for once from my newly reinstated front row seat, for however long it lasts.

I find myself grinning again. For the first time in a long time, maybe since before I walked onto that damn boat, I feel a lightness, a sort of uncomplicated bliss, and it suddenly hits me how glad I am just to be sitting here. I have a job again, my friends, a path back to a future that’s beyond this shit hole I’ve been stuck in. And a fat fucking brisket sandwich on the way.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel so afraid.

“Like I said,” Batista says, “staying out of it.”

Doakes is still smiling to himself as he sips his soda. As usual, it looks weird on his face.

As I open my mouth to comment on his mood, a call from behind interrupts me: “88!”

“That’s us.” Batista is already getting up. I move to follow, but he holds up his hands. “I’ll get it.”

“Alright,” I say, settling back.

He nods, then shuffles away, adjusting his hat as he goes.

Doakes watches him go, then turns to me. “I didn’t get a chance to say,” he says quietly, “it’s good to see you, Morgan. I’m glad to see you’re doing okay.”

Immediately, my smile starts to fade, but I force my expression to stay even. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m just glad to be back.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can Batista is walking back over with a couple of trays, which he sets down on the table. “Think this is yours,” he mutters to Doakes, shoving one of them towards him. I pull mine to me as Batista takes his seat, then glance at the two additional plates on the detective’s tray.

“What the fuck’re those?” I ask, pointing at them.

He grins at me, then picks up the plates. “Fried pickles,” he says, setting down the first one. “And the chicken wings.” He sets that down too.

That sounds as good as it does appalling. Doakes is already plucking up a handful of pickles, which he dunks into the accompanying dip. As he shoves the lot in his mouth, I grab one for myself and dip it into the mystery sauce, which turns out to be ranch dressing. Shit, it’s good.

“So how’s Auri doing?” I ask as I take another pickle.

Batista’s smile broadens. “Oh, she’s great. I have her for the weekend. I’m gonna take her to see that _Terabithia_ movie tomorrow.”

I flash back on the endless amount of TV I’ve been watching lately. “Oh, yeah. That’s opening today, right?”

“Yeah.”

Doakes pauses halfway through a wing. “Doesn’t she die of cancer or some shit?” he asks, brows wrinkled.

He shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a kids movie.”

He harrumphes, peels some meat off the bone with his fingers. “I remember reading that when I was a kid.”

I snort as I grab two pickles and drown them in ranch. It’s hard to imagine Doakes as a child. All I can really see is a miniature version of him, still somehow mustachioed, running around and calling people assholes.

Batista glances at me, then back at the sergeant. “I’d never heard of it. But it looks cute. And, besides, it’s not like I can take her to _Ghost Rider._ ”

“I’m pretty sure she dies,” he says. “She’s hit by a car or gets cancer or something. It was a sad book.”

“It’s a Disney movie. How sad can it be?”

“I don’t know. But it was sad.”

Batista looks at me. “You know anything about it?”

It’s my turn to shrug. “I think Dex is taking Rita and the kids to see it too. I’m sure Auri will like it.”

He looks back at Doakes with a “See?” expression, but instead of listening to the sergeant’s response I pick up my sandwich. Even cut in half the thing’s drippy and falling apart, and I’m not really sure how to eat it politely. After a second’s thought I give up and take a bite, let half of the meat fall onto the plate.

They’re still arguing about the movie as I restuff the sandwich, pour some of the extra barbecue sauce inside. By the time I’ve taken another bite the conversation’s shifted over to _Ghost Rider_ and whether or not it’s going to suck. The only thing I have to contribute is that I liked _National Treasure._

By the time the topic concludes I’m stripping my second wing with my teeth, already starting to feel full. I’d forgotten how good this place was. Batista and I went here for lunch once before when we were working the ITK case, I think back when we were chasing Neil Perry. Maybe I’ll drag Dexter here at some point. Or someone else.

“Anyway,” Batista says, holding up his huge-ass, half-eaten sandwich, “Morgan, you have any plans for the weekend?”

I set down the bones, wipe my fingers on a napkin. “Laundry, probably,” is all I can really think of.

“Well, you’re welcome to join us at the bowling alley,” he says. “We’re playing the Alley Cats on Sunday.”

I have a vague memory of my brother saying something about that. “Maybe another night,” I hedge. “I think I’m going to try to go to bed early on Sunday.” Though of course the truth is I think I’d rather fry and eat a bowling ball than spend the night watching Dexter, Masuka, Batista, and Jimmy bowl against a group of realtors or whoever the fuck it is this week.

Doakes catches my eye for a split second, and I feel something mutual pass between us as a big, cheese-covered glob falls out of Batista’s sandwich and plops onto his plate. Grinning slightly, I reach for and eat another pickle, which is unfortunately already getting cold. Doakes starts stabbing at his coleslaw.

“Your brother’s great,” Batista continues, scooping up the meat with his bread and fingers. “I don’t think we’ve ever played so well. I thought we were screwed when our old fourth fell through.”

“I didn’t even know Dexter knew how to bowl,” I say, picking at what’s left of the half of my sandwich. “Dad took us a few times when we were kids, but I don’t think he’s done it since he died.”

“Well, he’s a natural. I don’t know if he’s been taking my advice about projecting his intentions to the universe, but somebody seems to be listening to him.”

Doakes grunts but doesn’t say anything. And even though I can sense Batista wants to elaborate, or maybe because of that, I decide not to ask what the hell he’s talking about. “I’m just glad he’s got something to do,” I say instead.

“Yeah, he doesn’t get out much, does he?”

I snort. “I can’t name two places he’s been in the last couple months besides his apartment, his girlfriend’s house, and work. Somehow I forgot how fucking boring he is.”

Doakes glances at me, his brows dipping slightly. But if he wants to say anything, he’s silenced by someone’s phone going off. I start reaching for my purse, but Batista’s already got his cell out of his pocket. “ _Hablando de Roma,_ ” he murmurs, glancing at the screen before sticking it to his ear. “This is Batista,” he says.

I eat some more of my sandwich as he talks for a few minutes with who I’m guessing is my brother after the detective mentions something about a blood report. When I glance at Doakes, he’s gone back to his coleslaw, looking uninterested in the phone call. Whatever it is, they’re probably not working on it together.

“Uh huh,” Batista says finally. “Alright. Thanks for letting me know.”

I reach for my water as he hangs up. “Bad news?” I ask before taking a sip.

“Eh,” he exhales, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve got this domestic case. Pretty sure it’s the husband, but your brother’s saying it was somebody shorter. We’ve been hunting this guy for a week now, so I don’t know why he’d run if he’s not guilty.”

“Maybe he’s dead too?” I offer helpfully.

“Who fucking knows.” He reaches for and drains the last of his soda. “This case was a mess from the start.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He sets down the bottle and looks at it for a beat. “I think I need another one of these. I’ll tell you about it in a sec.”

“Alright.” I idly grab a napkin and start rubbing it between my palms.

“Want anything?”

Doakes and I shake our heads.

“I’ll be right back.”

Nodding slightly, I polish some dried sauce off a fingernail, though I know the only thing that’s going to get the stickiness off is a trip to the bathroom. Across the table, Doakes has refocused on his sandwich with renewed gusto. For as full as I am, I can’t imagine how he’s still hungry. Then again he’s like twice my size.

“You catch anything interesting lately?” I ask him, not really wanting to sit in silence.

He shrugs. “Same old, same old.”

A random thought crosses my mind. “Have you been partnered back with LaGuerta?”

He pauses, sandwich halfway back to his mouth. “Yeah.”

“How’s that been? I know you said you used to be partners.”

For awhile he just chews. “Maria was never big on field work,” he says eventually, lowering his wrists but still holding onto his sandwich. “But we always worked well together. It feels like old times.”

I nod, wondering if that means I’m going to be partnered back with Batista. “Good.”

I want to ask him something else just to keep him talking, but he’s already eating again. Instead I grab my water and lean back, drink, catch and suck on an ice cube. Despite the AC and overhead fans, it’s warm in here.

Within a couple minutes Batista comes back, fresh soda in tow, which he’s already opening as he takes his seat. When I prompt him for details about his case, it occurs to me that if we are partnered up again, come Monday this might end up being my problem too. The thought is oddly reassuring.

And as he talks it finally seems to sink in, settles over that jagged thing inside me, that maybe everything really can be okay again. That I won’t always have to claw for every inch. That I can just sit here and listen to this fucked-up story about years of documented domestic abuse and some dead codeine addict and not feel like the world is disintegrating under my feet.

And exactly that much is right with the world.

 


	5. A Smell of Brine and Cigarettes

__

_A Smell of Brine and Cigarettes  
_ _Setting: “It’s Alive”_

* * *

11:49

I drop the remote back onto my lap, reach for the carton of orange juice and take a drink. I’m currently trapped in _NCIS_ hell. My hopeful channel switch to NBC got me the news instead of Leno, because, of course, it’s Sunday. For whatever reason I decided this was better.

I screw the lid back on the OJ, set it back on the coffee table.

I’m going back to work in nine hours. Just a couple more shrink visits and this whole fucked-up chapter of my life is finally over and I can move on. I was excited to go to bed and get the day over with, but despite myself I couldn’t sleep. Dexter said he’d be home for dinner, but he never showed, and I’ve started getting worried about it. All my calls went straight to voice mail. I’m not quite ready to wake Rita up on a school night to check if he’s there, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it. Where else would he have gone after bowling? Why else would his phone be off? But if he is there, why wouldn’t he have at least let me know he wasn’t coming home tonight?

I look at the TV as a car commercial comes on. For some reason that’s what pushes me over the threshold, and I get up and head to the bedroom. My purse is sitting on the dresser. My cigarettes are inside it. On my way out the door I throw my cell phone in, just in case.

Thirty seconds later I’m lighting up on my way down the stairs to the lawn. There’s a 30-foot no-smoking radius around the apartment complex and the pool, which means the only safe place to enjoy a cigarette on the lot is at the foot of the dock. And even though I’ve been out here a thousand times by now, it still, idiotically, scares me to get this close to the ocean.

But I go anyway. The desire to smoke this thing is more powerful than my fear. Mostly.

I end up stopping a few yards shy of the fence. It takes a few more drags before I can force myself the rest of way, and then to take a seat on the cold concrete— because standing above it still makes me a little too nervous. I draw my knees up and lean against the divider, then look down.

I used to love the sound of the ocean. It reminded me of vacations and sunburns and childhood play dates, college parties, dates, skinny dipping at midnight with cheap champagne, my family. But Brian Moser stole that from me. It’s one of the many things I haven’t told my shrink, though I’d bet the rest of this cigarette she’d tell me to do exactly what I’m doing, to try to take it back.

I stare into the black water, inhale the brine. Feel my heart tapping in my ear.

But it still brings me back to the yacht, to being duct-taped on the floor of the life raft. I remember watching the sunrise knowing I’d never see it again. I remember trying to work up the courage to throw myself overboard and being too terrified to drown. Now when I look at the ocean all I can imagine is twisting and sinking in the icy cold, sucking in seawater through my nose.

Sometimes I imagine him coming back to the raft to get me after killing Fred Harvey only to find nothing but a bunch of bubbles popping on the surface of the water. I wonder if he was determined enough to murder me himself that he’d dive in after me, or if he’d just let me go to wash up at some point on shore, bound and gagged in silver tape, eyes eaten away by fish.

I laugh nervously, flick my spent cigarette away. Before it’s hit the water I’m already pulling out another one, and I light it. My hands are shaking, which kind of pisses me off.

I inhale, blow out a cloud of smoke. Try to drag myself to some other memory. Any memory.

For some reason what I come up with is Logan McKinley. When I was sixteen and in high school and angry all the time, Logan used to take me out on his parents’ boat. Dad was dead and Dexter was in college and never home, so we used to stay out there a long time drinking beer and smoking pot and fooling around. I didn’t know how to deal with losing my dad or with being alone all the time at home. Everyone at school knew I was an orphan. Logan was one of the only ones who didn’t give me shit for it. He used to give me rides home so I wasn’t stuck on the bus.

I remember lying on my back with him on the floor of his boat and staring up at the stars and passing airplanes, wondering what the fuck I was doing, what I even wanted to do. I remember the decision coming together like I’d received some cosmic direction from the sky, and I rolled over, on top of him. It was rocking on that boat somewhere just offshore in the middle of Biscayne Bay, squished between the plastic siding, that we both, awkwardly, lost our virginities.

I take another drag.

Logan moved with his family up to Virginia Beach in the summer. Dexter was looking at medical schools and I tried to convince him of how nice Virginia would be. Within a conversation I knew it was never going to happen but it was months before I let it go. I never ended up seeing Logan again, and I don’t have the slightest idea what ever happened to him. Maybe he’s still in Virginia, married to a blonde with a picket fence and 2.5 kids. Or maybe he isn’t.

I wonder if he ever thinks about me.

I smoke the last nub of the cigarette, then drop it into the water. I almost reach for a third but stop myself, grab my phone instead. 12:18. Still no call from Dex. Reflexively, I turn and look at the gate, then up at the apartment, but I don’t see my brother anywhere.

Where is he?

I want to get up, but I don’t. My gaze is already drawn back to the water, even though I can’t really see it, and beyond it, at a distant ship. I feel my fingers go cold, heat rise up my chest, my mouth dry. The image of Logan and his boat are slipping away and I can’t seem to hold onto them.

( _So desperate to fall in love…_ )

When I close my eyes his arms are around my throat again, his voice fading into a static of terror and pain as I suffocate. Everything they ever taught us at the Academy, everything I ever knew, overwhelmed, irrelevant, utterly fucking useless.

When I woke up again he was rolling tape around my stomach, attaching me firmly to the mast. My arms were bound in a cross over my chest and my legs were taped together. It took awhile for my thoughts to crawl out of the fog, for it to connect what was happening to me. But I remember the first thing I said when I picked up my head and knocked it back against the metal: “Rudy?”

“ _Hey,”_ he said. So fucking conversational, like I was waking up from a nap.

( _and he asked me if the tape was too tight, as if he gave a shit_ )

( _Does this make it easier for you? Coz I can keep going…_ )

I feel the panic mounting in my throat. I’m sitting on the dock outside my brother’s apartment. Those lights in the distance are Bay Harbor. He’s dead.

( _he’s dead_ )

( _The other women I could just pay_ )

( _You made it easy_ )

He’s dead and I’m not. It’s been almost two months. I lived. I survived.

( _he cut me from the mast and dropped me into the raft gagged me with the tape I screamed as he forced me into the trunk_ )

( _with the body_ )

( _he killed him he killed him he was dead_ )

I can feel myself sweating. A motorcycle going by the complex. My hands are locked around the bars of the railing. The metal is cold and moist. The air is warm and smells like the ocean.

( _he drugged me stripped me and wrapped me up in plastic_ )

( _why did I survive?_ )

( _why did he leave me there?_ )

Abruptly I force myself up. My heart is beating wildly. I move back from the water, try to reel back what’s happening to me. But whatever control I had over it is gone, because I can hear him there, _feel_ him there at my back. His breath on my ear.

The taste of menthol and champagne.

( _So desperate to fall in love…_ )

I turn tail and flee to my brother’s apartment at a run. When I get there my hands are shaking so much I can barely get the key in the lock. The second I’m finally inside I slam the door, slap the door chain in place, then run my hands through my hair and pull it back.

For a long moment I just stand here. Breathe. Eventually I pull out my phone, but it still hasn’t registered any calls. I try dialing Dexter’s number again, but it goes straight to voice mail.

( _I can’t…_ )

Deep breaths. The sound of the TV in the background slips in and out of focus. Someone’s talking about running cell phone records. Numbly, I walk over there and turn it off, toss the remote away. But the silence sets my teeth on edge.

I want to run, more than anything. My shrink is always telling me I need to stop trying to outrun what happened because I’ll never be able to, but the last ten minutes of my life are reason enough why I can’t stand still either.

I turn to double check that the door’s locked, and then I walk into the bedroom. My sports bra is hanging off the treadmill. After half a second of thought, I strip off my shirt and grab it, put it on as I start hunting for a hair tie and a shirt. It’s all I can think to do.


	6. Look Scared

__

_Look Scared  
_ _Setting: “It’s Alive”_

* * *

“So, want to talk about what happened?”

I glance at LaGuerta as I roll to a stop behind a line of cars at a light. Up until this moment we’d been sitting here in silence, since we left the dead guy at the dock, and I’ve been only too happy to let it sit. Whatever insanity led me to hug my former LT this morning has long since fled, was chased away rather abruptly by all that old, familiar tension. She looked like she’d been force fed a pile of earthworms when she walked out of her old office and told us we were partnering for the day.

As we were driving to the scene she asked me was if I was sure I was ready for active duty.

“No,” I reply simply. Because even if I did, it sure as shit wouldn’t be with her.

“Alright,” she says. Then she turns to look back out the passenger-side window, neatly refolding her hands on her lap.

The lights on the Jeep in front of us go out as it rolls up a couple inches, and I ease off the brakes to follow it, then stop again at its bumper.

When we got to the scene I went straight to the body, maybe just to prove seeing it wouldn’t bother me, and it didn’t escape my notice that everyone hung back to let me do it. And the truth is it _didn’t_ bother me. As I stood there I thought about very little, felt even less. When I walked away it was with an almost perverse sense of relief that I haven’t lost the ability not to give a shit.

And then the dipshits with their cameras showed up.

Finally the cars start moving, and I tap the gas, my eyes on the distant light. By the time we get up to it, the light blinks red, and I stop with a sigh as the Jeep continues through the intersection, sling my arms over the wheel.

_Yo, Mrs. Ice Truck Killer…_

Despite myself, my teeth clamp together. Everyone has been extremely careful not to make any mention of the ITK or what happened to me, and because of that everything has felt pretty normal, or as normal as it could be. Maybe then it was inevitable, on some cosmic level, that today would be another one of those days where somebody had to recognize me from the news.

To his credit, Doakes— the only other person to overhear it —acted as if nothing happened. He just nodded in my direction before taking off to find our new suspect, Little Chino, of whom I know nothing.

I just wish I could have gone with him.

“Finally,” I murmur as the light changes again. I gun it forward, start hopscotching between lanes, ignoring LaGuerta’s glance in my direction. I still feel agitated.

_Look scared for the camera…_

The silence is becoming less pleasant.

“You know anything about this Little Chino?” I ask as I make the turn onto the highway.

She nods. “Yeah. Doakes caught a case we tried to tie him to a few years ago. Made it all the way to trial.”

“And?” I prompt.

“If I remember, his witness died just before he could testify. I think he was hit by a car.”

My eyebrows dip. “By Chino?”

“Nothing we could prove.” She shrugs.

“And nothing’s stuck to him?”

“The guy’s coated in Teflon.”

I exhale. “Well, maybe this time he’ll fry.”

“Assuming he’s guilty.”

“Yeah. Assuming—” My attention sharpens as I slam the brakes. “Fuck!” I hiss at the bumper that’s just appeared in front of me without signaling, pounding my horn. “Did you fucking see that?” Instinctively I start to reach for the switch for the gumballs, then remember I’m in what’s essentially a civilian car, and that that’s not my responsibility anymore anyway.

LaGuerta just glances at me, then away again. And suddenly I’m reminded that we’re together today so she can watch me, so she can make sure I don’t have a meltdown or something and screw up Miami Metro’s image more than I already have.

Taking a breath, I drop into a reasonable following distance, let the anger drain away. Unclench my teeth.

But immediately, unwillingly, my thoughts are pulled back to the pier.

I let them take my picture. There wasn’t anything else I could do, surrounded as I was by other cops, pedestrians, the fucking Banana Boat guy. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with them that they thought that was okay. What they said.

_Look scared for the camera…_

“That’s happened before,” I say, just to get it to stop. “People recognizing me. No one’s ever tried to take my picture though. At least, that I know of.”

I avoid looking at LaGuerta as she turns back to me. “Does it bother you?” she asks.

I shrug. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I glance at her, meet her eyes for a moment before looking back at the road. “What do you think?” I ask flatly, rhetorically.

Thankfully, she doesn’t reply. Just looks back out the window.

The next twenty minutes pass in rigid silence. I spend most of it playing the scene on repeat, and remembering other incidents. The guy that scared me away from the gym. The chick at the sandwich shop. The look on Doakes’ face when he came into my hospital room. I keep wondering what or if I could’ve done anything differently. I keep wondering if I’ll ever be able to put this behind me.

Then, finally, I’m pulling into the parking lot in front of the station. As I turn into a space, LaGuerta looks over at me. “Would you mind going to records and pulling Chino’s file?” she asks. “I think his first name is Alfonzo.”

I kill the engine and glance over at her, feeling a distant pang. “Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks.” She grabs her purse off the floor and opens the door. “I’ll see you up there, Officer.”

“Yeah,” I say, unbuckling.

And then she slams the door and walks away. For a moment I just watch her go, then sigh and reach for my own purse. Sticking half out of it is the Banana Boat brochure. For some reason I pull it out, flip it open, skim the bullet points. Absorb absolutely none of them. Not really knowing what to do with it, I reach over and throw it in the glove department. I’m sure with how often these cars are cleaned that it probably won’t be found until it’s decommissioned.

As I throw open the door the impulse to smoke hits me, strong and hard. I’m halfway to pulling out the box when I stop myself, force myself to let go of it.

Lately I’ve been thinking about quitting. Sort of. I gave in at the crime scene, but maybe I can put off until after lunch. That’s something, right?

I grab a stick of gum instead, slam and lock the door. And then I head for the station, chomping away. I already feel slightly more relaxed as I walk inside and say hi to the desk sergeant, turn for the stairs. Even if I still desperately want a smoke.

I exit the first floor. It’s not until I’m almost up to the door that I pause, the same way I always do when I’ve had to come down here.

Camilla Figg’s been the records supervisor for longer than I’ve been alive. Her family was fairly close to my family, close enough for weekend bridge, Sunday football nights, I think a couple Thanksgivings. After Mom died the weekly visits dried up, but sometimes they still came around. And after Dad died, I remember Camilla came to check up on me, but I was always too pissed off to want to talk to her. Eventually she stopped coming. It was years before I realized how much I probably hurt her feelings.

I always feel something weirdly like grief when I see her now.

Swallowing a bit of minty saliva, I walk forward. I don’t see her sitting behind her desk, so I hit the bell and open the door.

“Just a minute!” she calls from somewhere out of sight.

“Okay,” I reply, walking in and stopping in front of her desk. Feeling awkward, I cross my arms, brace myself.

“Debra,” she says, appearing suddenly from behind the stacks. “Why, aren’t you a picture.”

“Hi, Camilla,” I say.

In moments she’s reached me, and I feel something horrible stretch and sting inside me as she wraps me in a hug. Blinking, I hug her back.

“How are you?” she asks as she pulls away. “I haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say. Then, hastily, before she can mention the elephant that followed me into the room, “And I’m good. How’re you?”

Her face falls. “You know, it’s been a lot of ups and downs. Gene hasn’t been doing well.”

That sick feeling sloshes around again. “Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“The doctors don’t know how long he has.” Her gaze drifts away, and I find I have no idea what to say. “He’s started chemo but it’s too early to tell if it’s helping. But at least he hasn’t gotten any worse since he started.”

We have to stop talking about this. “Give him my best for me,” I say. “Do you need anything?”

She shakes her head. “No. Thank you though.” She smiles at me, then claps her hands together. “Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t come down here just to visit. Was there anything you needed?”

“Yeah.” I nod, relieved. “I need the file on some dirtbag named Alfonzo Chino, AKA Little Chino.”

“Chino,” she repeats, nodding to herself. Then she walks down the aisle, stoops down to pull a folder out of one of the bottom rows. “Here it is. You want a copy or—”

“Just the whole thing, thanks,” I say.

When she reaches me I go to take the file, but she doesn’t let go of it immediately. I look down at her, my brows pinching slightly, and I find her eyes boring into mine. “I heard about what happened,” she says. “About Brian Moser. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Me too.”

She seems to be searching me for something. But before I can ask what, she lets go. “It’s so nice to see you. Come back some time, you hear?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah, I will.” I back up a step, tucking the file under my arm. “It was nice to see you, Camilla.”

“You too, dear.” She smiles at me, then plops down into her chair. I’m already opening the door.

I’m halfway down the hall before the spooked feeling starts going away. Maybe it was just because she said his name. In all this time, hardly anyone except Dexter and my shrink have said it, and it still makes me uncomfortable.

But the way she looked at me…

I stab the button for the elevator, but before the thing’s even had a chance to move in my direction, I head for and push open the door to the stairs.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. He was a cowardly piece of shit who killed himself and it’s over and it’s done.

I start clomping upstairs, ready to get back to my desk. More than ready to find out about Alfonzo Chino and what makes his file so thick.

More than ready to just get the fuck to work.


	7. Peas in a Fucked-Up Pod

__

_Peas in a Fucked-Up Pod  
_ _Setting: “It’s Alive”_

* * *

I dig my fingers into the back of my neck, squeeze the ice in the bag against my elbow. It’s only sort of helping the throbbing. Meanwhile my gaze is stuck to the ambulance on the other end of the parking lot and the cops standing outside it. The other uniform is standing a couple yards away from us, his hands resting loosely on his belt.

“Are you feeling any better?” Rita asks again, maybe just to break the silence.

It’s a beat before I can force myself to look away from the ambulance. “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Yeah, I’m okay now.” Physically, undamaged. Emotionally… well, as fucked as ever, but back to usual levels.

But career-wise, jesus motherfuck. I could be so seriously assfucked.

I dig my nails deeper into my skin.

I was still quaking from the adrenaline pumping through my veins when the uniforms arrived, pacing shakily around the parking lot and sucking on a cigarette. I’m not sure who called them. Maybe it was the bartender. When they approached me it was cautiously, like I was an animal. And even though I got where they were coming from, it still pissed me off.

“I’m Officer Moyse,” one of them said. “This is Officer Yi. Can you tell us your name?”

“Uh, Debra Morgan,” I replied. “Officer Debra Morgan. I work for Miami Metro.” I pulled my badge out of my purse then, being very careful not to flash my service pistol— which I shouldn’t even be carrying.

“Officer Morgan,” Moyse repeated. And from the way he looked at me, I knew he knew who I was, the same as the idiot at the bar, the fucktards at the pier, everyone else in this whole goddamn, godforsaken state. “Can you tell us what happened here?”

I told them, even though I barely knew myself, as embarrassment and regret rushed up to burn away the adrenaline. It was just an overreaction, a stupid fucking mistake. Already I know he never grabbed me. He barely touched me. But, jesus, he scared the shit out of me.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” I said after I explained what happened. “I don’t know if it makes any fucking difference, but I am.”

Moyse nodded at me, flashed what could’ve been a reassuring smile. “I will.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

As he walked away Yi asked if it was okay if he stayed with us. I said yes, even though I knew it wasn’t really a question. He’s going to stand here and watch me until the situation is resolved, whether I want him to or not.

However it’s resolved.

Jesus christ, I’m such a fucking idiot.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Rita. “This is such a mess.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Really. I understand. I just wish there was more I could do.”

I smile thinly. “You’re such a sweet person, Rita.”

“It’ll get better, I promise.” I swear I can remember saying something like that to her once, a long time ago. Slowly she reaches out, lightly touches my arm. I unlock my hand from my neck, slide it down to squeeze hers, just for a moment. And even though I still want to flee from this parking lot as fast as my legs can carry me, I feel slightly calmer, like maybe I’m not about to be buried under three hundred tons of molten lava.

That calm evaporates as I spot the guy I assaulted climb out of the ambulance, and as Moyse starts walking in our direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Yi shift a hair.

“Officer Morgan,” Moyse says as he gets within earshot. “So Mr. O’Bannon has agreed not to press charges. He says he understands it was just a big misunderstanding.”

“Really?” Something seems to uncork inside me, and a wave of relief thunders through me, so powerfully I feel myself shake. “Oh, jesus. Thank god. Thank you.” I look past the cop at the guy, who’s already walking toward his car, his friend at his back. “Jesus.”

“We still do have to report this though. You understand?”

I look back at Moyse. “I know. I understand.” Though as I say that I have no idea how this is going to play out when it reaches Pascal.

“Are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah.” I lower the ice pack from my elbow. “Yeah, I’m fine now.”

“Then we’ll get going. Have a good night, Officer.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“Good night,” Yi says, nodding at me.

I watch them as they walk to their cars, as O’Bannon pulls out of the lot. After a beat I turn to Rita, squeezing the half-melted ice between my fingers. “You ready to go?” I ask her.

“Yeah,” she says.

I lead the way back to my car, open the door. As we climb inside I throw the ice pack and my purse to the back seat, then lean my head back against the seat, blow out a breath. “What a fucking night,” I mutter, absently rubbing my elbow.

“Yeah,” Rita says, shutting her door.

I turn to look at her. She’s sitting there tightly and uncomfortably, and I feel a pang of guilt. “We didn’t even get to eat,” I say, slamming my own door. “Want me to stop at a drivethru or something?”

“Sure.” She smiles at me again.

I nod and key over the engine, then reach for my seat belt. “Isn’t there a Snappers near here?”

“I think so.”

“Want to try that?”

“Sure. That sounds good.”

Nodding, I turn to look out the rear window, back out of the space.

Five minutes later we’re rolling down the highway. Already I’m going over and over the incident at the bar, thinking about how a sane person would’ve reacted, thinking about how _I_ would’ve reacted two months ago. Thinking about what I’m going to say to Pascal when the report hits her desk. Thank god it won’t be LaGuerta that I’ll have to deal with.

Rita’s phone rings, drawing me from my thoughts. She pulls it out and looks at the caller ID, sighs, then kills the call without answering. When she glances up she catches me looking. “It’s the prison,” she says, balling it up in her hand. “Paul again.”

My brows crease. “Is he harassing you?” I ask.

“No, no,” she says quickly, maybe too quickly. “I don’t know. He says he’s not going to make it in federal prison. That it’s too rough for him.”

I scoff. “Maybe he should’ve thought of that before shooting up a couple weeks into his parole.”

“Yeah, that’s more or less what I’ve told him,” she says. For a beat she says nothing. Then, quietly, maybe just to herself, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t let that jackass make you feel responsible for his shit,” I say, fully aware of the hypocrisy in my saying that. “Paul put himself in prison. He knew what he was doing and he just didn’t give a shit.”

“I know, I know,” she says, sounding noncommittal. Privately, I can relate. She sighs. “I don’t really want to talk about him anymore.”

“Alright.” I nod. Because I can relate to that too.

We lapse back into silence. Eventually I drift over to the left lane, eying the squat little buildings we’re passing. I know it’s somewhere close.

“So how was work today?” Rita asks suddenly. “Dexter said it was your first day back?”

“Yeah,” I say, then shrug. “And it was good, all things considered. Went better than I thought it would.”

“Do anything interesting?”

“Yeah. We caught a homicide barely three minutes into my shift.”

“Oh,” she says, pauses. “And it doesn’t—” she cuts herself off. “Sorry, nevermind.”

I glance at her. “What?”

“It just…” she trails off. “It doesn’t bother you? Seeing that stuff? After what happened to you?”

I look at her again, then back at the road, back looking for street signs. But in my mind all I can really see is the dead guy on the rocks, Chino sitting in the interrogation room with Doakes, Eva Arenas and her daughter’s hollowed eyes. “No,” I say after a moment. “I thought maybe it would, but it doesn’t. Maybe I’m just numb to it.” I laugh slightly. “Truthfully, I fucking love my job. I felt better today than I have since…” I stop, but for some reason I feel compelled to finish the thought, “since he took me.”

Suddenly, finally, I spot the Snappers sign across from the next intersection, behind the light pole. “There it is,” I murmur, speeding up while the light is still green.

I can feel her looking at me. And maybe just to preempt anymore questions, I decide to change the subject. “How about you? How’s your job?”

“Oh, you know.” She shrugs. “It’s just a job. But I’m grateful for it.”

“That bad, huh?”

“No, no.” She waves me off. “Really, it’s good. I like my coworkers, the pay is pretty good, I have benefits. Finally have some savings. I really am happy with it.”

“That’s great,” I say, flipping my blinker, then making a left. As I make a right into the lot, I find the expected line, move to pull into it anyway.

“It’s just the guests,” she says as I pull behind the line of cars. “Sometimes I think my day would go a lot better if there weren’t any guests.”

I snort. “Is it wall-to-wall assholes?”

“Well, maybe not wall to wall…” She smiles, and finally she seems a little less tense. “Really, I shouldn’t complain.”

“Oh, but it feels so good.” I ease off the brakes as the car in front of us moves forward, stop again after a couple feet. Put the car in park.

She nods. “Yeah, but even so.”

With no other conversation springing to mind, I pull my hair behinds my ears, roll down the window and throw my arm out the door. I want a smoke.

“It’s nice tonight,” Rita says, also opening her window.

“Yeah.” I inhale, smell fried fish and exhaust on the temperate air. But in the quiet I’m already thinking about the bar again, how that guy’s touch sent a bolt of fear and pain through my skin. I’ve hardly allowed anyone to come within two feet of me since that night.

I tighten my hand over the side of my car, swallowing a flush of rage and shame. Because he took that from me too.

_Yo, Mrs. Ice Truck Killer…_

“Deb,” I hear Rita over that thing starting to seethe inside me, and when I look at her she nods in front of us.

“Oh.” I move into the car-sized gap between me and the next bumper, pull back into park.

“You know what you want?” she asks, leaning over to look past me at the menu board.

To run. Hard and fast and away. “No,” I say instead of that, turning to look at the board too. My appetite disintegrated an hour ago.

“I may get the catfish. Would you want any of it?” When I glance at her she smiles shyly. “Sorry, I’m so used to sharing everything.”

“No, that sounds good.” Reflexively, I smile back, push away my thoughts. “Would you want some shrimp?”

“Sure.”

As I look back at the board, her phone rings again, and again she kills the call before the second ring. This time I don’t ask. Just start reaching out of the car for the intercom.

I pause halfway there, noticing a glossy paper tacked to the bottom of the menu— ‘DAILY FRESH BAKED CAKES.’ To my right, Rita mutes her phone, stuffs it into her purse.

And because I really am at a loss, and because we’re both haunted by specters we can’t really do anything about, I say the only thing I can think of: “Want some cake?”

She laughs a little, somewhat hopelessly. “Yeah.”

Nodding, I press the button.


	8. A Pot of Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technical/geographical note. There isn’t actually a “Bay Harbor” in Miami, and I’m ignoring the show’s chosen location for it, which is the part of Biscayne Bay between the mainland and Key Biscayne. There are the Bay Harbor Islands, which is where Dexter lives, but I can only assume he wasn’t stupid enough to dump his victims in a small, enclosed, highly visible part of the bay a stone’s throw from his apartment. That’s the same reason I opted not to use the part of the the bay the show proposes, because it’s far too visible and enclosed— on a boat or jet ski, you could probably cross the widest point in less than eight minutes. Additionally, it would make his dock about an hour-and-a-half/two-hour boat ride from his apartment, and I believe it was implied to be much closer. This is aside from the fact that the proposed location for Coral Cove is on the tip of Virginia Key, in the middle of an undeveloped park.
> 
> So in the spirit of fictionalized geography, I’m just going to dub the real Bal Harbour “Bay Harbor” and assume he dumped them at least like four or five miles off the coast.
> 
> This effects nothing, unless you know Miami or are following along with Google Maps, but because Dexter is called the “Bay Harbor Butcher” I just really wanted it to make sense.

__

_A Pot of Coffee  
_ _Setting: “Waiting to Exhale”_

* * *

“… _treasure hunters made a shocking and gruesome discovery off the coast of Florida yesterday. Police are still searching through mountains of evidence lying on the bottom of the ocean. Sources say there could be multiple victims in what appears to be an underwater graveyard.”_

I throw aside my pillow and sink into the couch, hands wrapped around my coffee mug, eyes glued to the TV.

“ _At least 35 bags of human remains have been pulled up from the water by police dive crews, and, by all accounts, there may still be more. When asked for comment about whether or not these bodies have any connection to the recent Ice Truck Killer investigation, Captain Thomas Matthews of Miami Metro’s Homicide division had this to say:_

“ ‘ _At this time, it’s too soon to tell whether or not we are in fact dealing with another site of Brian Moser, the so-called Ice Truck Killer, or something else entirely. The investigation of the…’ ”_

I hear a door open, and I glance away from the captain as Dexter shuffles into view. Except for shoes, he’s already dressed.

“Morning,” I say, then squint at him closer as he heads toward the TV. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” He grimaces at me, looks at the TV. For a second he says nothing.

“… _few minutes we’ll be speaking live with William Perl, one of the men who found the bodies in the trench…”_

“Anything new?” he asks.

I shrug, take a sip of coffee. “Not that the media is reporting,” I say, setting the mug on the table. “But I saw Pascal in the background with Matthews at the scene. They must’ve been up here since before the asscrack of dawn.”

“Up here,” he repeats, staring at the TV.

“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my aching elbow. “They were found right off Bay Harbor.”

“Oh.” He keeps staring at the screen as the news cuts to another pano of the piles of garbage bags. And despite what I said last night, every time I see it I can’t help but think of Doakes returning my things to me in a Hefty bag, and those rows and rows of empty, plastic buckets. Maybe this really is just the ITK’s dump site, the place he threw away all the pieces he wasn’t proud enough to put on display. His final, putrid tableau.

I look back up at my brother. “Why’re you up and dressed so early?”

He doesn’t peel his gaze from the TV. “I have to go to Rita’s.”

“Yeah?” A feral smile pulls at my face. “Planning to squeeze in a quickie before work?”

“No,” he says, voice as flat and humorless as ever. “Paul died last night.”

The smile falls away in an instant. “What?”

Finally he looks at me. “Paul died last night. Rita said it was a prison altercation.”

I just look at him, feeling stunned. “He’s dead?” I repeat. “Really?” I lean back as it sinks in. “Jeez.”

“I don’t know if she’s told the kids yet,” he says. “But I figured I should be there, maybe make breakfast or something.”

“Yeah.” I think of last night, of all the calls Rita was ignoring. I think of the night I took the baseball bat from Paul, arrested his blitzed ass and threw him in the back of my car. For some reason all I can think to ask is, “Is she upset?”

“Yeah.”

Though, of course she is. That’s a stupid fucking question. Even if Paul was a knuckle-dragging piece of shit.

_Was._

“I better go,” he says in the absence of my reply. “I’m sure traffic’s already bad.”

“Yeah, it probably is.” I shift some hair behind my ear. “There’s coffee if you want some.”

“Thanks. I’ll take a thermos with me.” He glances at the TV again, where some tanned, straw-haired guy is rambling about something as video of police divers scrolls above his left shoulder.

And as I look between him and the screen, a question bubbles up my throat. “Do you think this was him?” I ask quietly. “Ru— Moser, I mean.”

He looks at me and shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Is it terrible that I hope it isn’t?”

For a long moment he just regards me. “I don’t know that either.”

I roll my eyes, reach for my mug. “You’re a big fucking help,” I say, taking a sip.

“Thanks,” he says, unironically, gaze already crawling back to the screen.

“You alright?” I ask. “You’re acting more wooden than usual.”

“I just didn’t sleep well.” But my words seem to have snapped him out of it. He starts moving away. “I’m gonna get going.”

“Okay,” I say, taking another sip. “Tell Rita…” I trail off, unsure what to say. “Well, tell her I said something.”

“I will,” he replies, disappearing back into his bedroom. I have a feeling he won’t.

When I look back at the TV the tanned guy is gone, replaced by a chick with a red blazer talking over footage of traffic on one of the causeways. As I reach for the remote I consider channel hopping until I can find more news on the bodies in the bay, but instead I just turn the thing off. If Matthews and Pascal are there, chances are this case is going to end up at Miami Metro.

My core constricts at the thought.

I take a sip of coffee, then another, just to avoid thinking about it further.

I’m almost through the mug when Dexter reappears, his work bag slung over his shoulder. He stops in the kitchen to grab and fill a thermos. “I’ll see you later, Deb,” he says when he’s done, carefully screwing on the lid.

“Yeah, see you later.”

We wave at each other before he turns, de-chains and unlocks the door, and walks out. The second the door closes the neurotic, idiotic impulse to get up and resecure it hits me, but instead I go over to the coffee pot, refill my mug with what’s left, sip it slowly. My thoughts drift back to Paul.

I wonder if it was him calling last night, or if it was the prison trying to notify. I can’t say that I or the rest of the world will particularly mourn his passing, but he did leave behind two kids, and, despite everything they witnessed, he was still their father, and they loved him. I remember Christmas with Astor, her sadness and worries of abandonment.

No, I certainly will not miss Paul Bennett. He lived and died an abusive, lying sack of shit, and Rita will do better without him.

I drink more coffee, wince as my elbow throbs again. Thankfully, it hasn’t really turned any colors, but it does hurt— though, probably not as much as that guy’s nose.

I swirl my spoon around the mug, then toss it into the pile of crap in the sink.

God, that was such a fucking disaster. I wonder if the only reason Pascal hasn’t called me yet is because she’s too busy at the scene in Bay Harbor. At this point I’ll be lucky if I don’t get pulled off active and dropped behind a desk. Or worse.

Jesus, I’m such a mess. Couldn’t even last a day.

I push away from the counter, glance at the clock. I still have time before I have to go. A lot of time.

My gaze is drawn to the bedroom, and to the treadmill. I can already feel the anxiety building— over the guy I assaulted, over the bodies in the bay that may or may not have been deposited there by my former, dead lover. All I want in the world is to run away from it. Just for awhile, for as long as I can get away with.

Exhaling, I flip the lock on the door, then head into the bedroom. Because that much I can do.


	9. Slogging Forward

__

_Slogging Forward  
_ _Setting: “Waiting to Exhale”_

* * *

We left the crime scene soon after the coroner drove away with Eva Arenas’ body, as the techs were washing her blood down a storm drain. Batista sat in heavy silence the whole way back to the station, and I didn’t really make much of an effort at conversation. Because while I sympathize with what he’s feeling, a lot of me— selfishly, obsessively —still can’t stop thinking about the bodies they’re pulling out of the ocean up north. About the murderer they’re calling the Bay Harbor Butcher. About whether or not this is just the Ice Truck Killer resurfacing.

Now we’re all gathered in the briefing room, the paperwork on Rafael Arenas and Chino and everyone and everything we know about the 29th Street Kings spread all over the table. Ramos is still with Eva’s daughter and the DCF. Pascal is out, either off duty or back dealing with the Bay Harbor bodies, I don’t know. I’m surprised she isn’t here, and that she left this case to LaGuerta. The mother of a murder victim gets whacked the day after her son in connection to a gangbanger who’s so far avoided prosecution? Accusations about our department’s relationship with the Hispanic community aside, I’m sure I’m not the only one smelling the shitstorm building on the horizon.

“We should’ve held him,” Batista says suddenly, setting down the paper he’s been reading. “We could’ve prevented this.”

“We offered her protection,” Doakes says gruffly. “And she refused.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have been too happy about accepting our help either after we told her we didn’t have enough to arrest the prick who killed her son.”

“Of course she was unhappy. But that didn’t change the fact that she couldn’t have given us grounds to hold him. And we couldn’t force her to accept our protection.”

He taps his highlighter on the table. “You don’t feel we’re even a little responsible for this?”

“Of course I do.” He closes the folder he’s been looking at, pulls another one off the stack by his elbow. “But what the fuck else were we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Something.”

“Alright,” LaGuerta says, holding up a hand as Doakes looks up to glare at Batista. “Enough. What’s done is done. The best we can do for her now is to clean up this mess and find something that’ll finally put Chino away.”

As if anyone’s going to talk to us now, I think, flipping through Rafael’s autopsy report again. Or ever would have.

Assuming what Eva said was true, Chino picked up Rafael Sunday night, stabbed the shit out of him— possibly with help, but probably not —then dumped him under the causeway. None of the Arenas’ neighbors saw Chino in the neighborhood, that night or any other night. They have no idea who he is, despite the fact that he and the 29th Street Kings have been grinding the shit out of East Kendall for about a decade now.

The next day Eva gets shredded or dumped or whatever happened to her right in front of her own house, just a couple yards from her front door, but no one saw or heard anything. In fact, it’s our fault. The same way it somehow always is.

I stare at the marks the coroner drew over the generic body outline on the autopsy sheet, picture the bloody hack marks all over his and Eva’s body.

Though Batista may be right about this one.

I’m reaching for my big gulp of Diet Coke when there’s a knock on the glass behind us. I let go of the cup and turn to see Dexter standing there, a couple folders in his hand.

“I’ve got my preliminary report here,” he says as he comes in, waggling one of the folders. “And Masuka’s.” He gestures with the other.

“Cliffnotes?” LaGuerta asks, taking Masuka’s.

He shrugs, handing me his blood report. “The wounds are consistent with a machete. Judging by the lack of blood at the scene, I don’t think she was killed where she was found. Probably looking at another dump job.”

“Wonderful,” I murmur, leafing through the glossy, horrible pictures. After flipping through half of them, I pass the folder over to Batista, having no real desire to see the rest.

“Doesn’t look like Masuka’s found anything yet,” LaGuerta says, folding over a page as she skims.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Dexter says.

She sighs and leans back in her chair.

“He said he’d be by in a few minutes. But if there’s nothing else, I thought I’d get going.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” She waves him off. “Good night, Dexter.”

He nods. “Good night, Lieutenant. Everyone.”

“Night,” Batista echos. I think I hear Doakes grunt.

“See you later, bro,” I say.

With another nod he turns, disappears down the hall. I pick up my Coke again.

For a few moments it’s just quiet, as I sip my drink and the other cops flip through the paper my brother just delivered. Then LaGuerta sets down Masuka’s report and closes it. “Not that I expected forensics to hand us a break on this,” she says, as if to conclude some nonexistent conversation.

Before if I can decide whether or not I care about seeing what Masuka wrote up, Doakes reaches for the folder.

“So we’ve got nothing?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Tomorrow we’re going to have to recanvas the neighborhood. Hopefully we can find someone willing to talk to us before we find Chino.”

Yeah, fat fucking chance.

I don’t voice the thought.

“For now let’s call it a night,” she continues. “Thanks for all your hard work today.”

Doakes shuts Masuka’s report, pushes to his feet. “What a fucking mess,” he growls.

“That’s for fucking sure,” I say, getting up too and stretching my back.

“I’ll clean up,” LaGuerta says to Batista as he starts shuffling the paper on the desk. “Don’t worry about.”

“Alright,” he says, shrugging and getting up.

“Morgan,” LaGuerta stops me as I grab my cup and move to follow Doakes to the door. “Can you stay a minute? I need to talk to you.”

Doakes, Batista, and I exchange glances before I look over at LaGuerta, who’s still sitting at the table, neatly tapping a stack of papers into order. “Yeah, sure,” I say. For one brief, naive second I’m not sure what this is about, but by the next I remember the assault at the bar. As the two other cops head for the exit, I feel my stomach sinking.

“Would you mind closing the door?” she asks, to no one in particular. Doakes is already walking into the hall.

“Yeah,” Batista says. He nudges the door stop out, catches the door with his hand. He glances at me curiously before he steps out and lets it shut quietly behind him.

Trapped, alone now with the leviathan, I turn to face her. “I’m guessing this is about the fight last night?” I ask wearily and without preemption, before she can sink her teeth into me.

“You guessed right,” she gestures in front of her. “Sit down, please.”

Swallowing the lump that’s suddenly appeared in my throat, I set my cup back down, go to reclaim my seat.

She waits until I’ve settled before she speaks again. “Tell me what happened,” she says.

I feel a flush of shame. “It was just a misunderstanding,” I hedge.

“So explain it.”

For a beat I just look at her. I can only assume she’s read the incident report, so any whitewashing would just be handing her a shovel to deepen my grave. “I was at the bar waiting for a drink,” I say. “This guy, O’Bannon, he said he recognized me from somewhere, tried to get my attention. When I ignored him he touched me, and I hit him. It was just a reflex.”

Her face is completely impassive. “How did he touch you?” she asks.

Another flush, this one warmer. With a rush of self-hatred, I tap the spot with my fingers. “He touched my arm,” I say.

She nods. “I read Officer Moyse’s report. He said you apologized and, after learning more about your circumstances, Mr. O’Bannon agreed not to press charges.”

“That’s what happened,” I say. And then I don’t say anything else.

LaGuerta studies me for a bit. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shrug. “It was a mistake. I just… reacted. He had no right to touch me.”

“No one’s saying he did. But that doesn’t make your reaction appropriate, especially as a peace officer.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I look away, down at the half-organized spread of reports. “I feel like shit about it.”

Another pause. Then, “Are you sure you don’t need more time?”

“Yes.” I meet her gaze again. “I need to be here. I need to work.”

Her eyes harden. “What I’m hearing is you still need time to work through what happened to you. I’m not convinced that it’s appropriate or safe for you to do that here, with a badge and a firearm.”

I feel that hatred pound through me, toward myself, and toward her. It strangles my response in my throat.

“What if you’d been armed at that bar? What happens if you ‘react’ to somebody in the community while you’re on the job?”

I _was_ armed last night, and thank the sweet baby jesus she doesn’t know that.

“I have a responsibility to keep the people in the community and the people in my department safe, Morgan, and that includes you,” she continues. “Tell me why I shouldn’t recommend to Pascal that you be taken off active duty.”

“I…” I falter. _Because I need this._ “Because it was a mistake.” _I need to be here._

She searches me. “That’s all you have to say?”

_Don’t take this away from me._

“No.” I desperately want to get up and away from her. “I don’t know what I can say. I passed the psych screen and the department shrink agreed I was ready to come back. I can only promise that nothing like this will ever happen again.”

“You understand why that isn’t enough to convince me?”

Fear is chewing into the rage and shame seething through me. _Don’t let him take this from me too._ “I do understand, Lieutenant.” I fight to maintain even the vaguest wisp of professionalism. “But I can’t prove to you that something won’t happen. I’m asking you to have some faith in me.”

She says nothing for what feels like minutes, or eons, though really it’s probably just a few seconds. “I want you to come in a little early tomorrow to meet with Lieutenant Pascal and I so we can talk about this more,” she says finally. “Ultimately, this decision is up to her.”

 _Thank god._ “Alright,” I say. “I’ll be here.”

She lets another beat pass, but something in her expression seems to soften as she leans slightly forward. “I want you to understand that I’m not trying to minimize what happened to you. If anything, I’m worried that that’s what you’re doing by coming back here so soon.”

I clamp down on all that hatred, try to imagine crushing it into a ball. Try to think of something cogent to say. “Respectfully, Lieutenant, I think it’s time for me to move on,” is what I come up with. “I’m not gonna be able to do that with more time off. At least here I can get some distance.”

For awhile she says nothing, maybe because she’s waiting for me to continue, but the reality is I don’t think I can trust her with much more. I’ve probably already said too much. “Alright,” she says finally. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early,” I say, quickly pushing to my feet. I pause before fleeing for the door, look down at her. I almost want to say something else, maybe thank her for her rare show of concern, or maybe make one last stab at convincing her that I’m not halfway off the deep end. But instead I just say, “Good night.”

“Good night,” she replies, already going back to organizing paper.

Without another word, I grab my Coke and wheel around, head for the exit. Before the door’s shut behind me, I’ve already reached my desk. Batista’s the only other one still in the pen, doing something on his computer. My brother’s station is dark, but Masuka’s still there, also sitting behind his computer. I ignore both their glances as I set my cup down and move behind my desk, reach for the drawer where I stashed my purse. Smoke. Want a smoke. Need a smoke.

I’m drawn short by a blinking light on my landline. And even though I know I need to get the hell out of here, I reach for the receiver, tap the code to get into my voicemail.

“ _Hello, this is Eric Hernandez,”_ a tinny voice buzzes in my ear. I sink into my chair, my heart thumping dully. _“I got your message about my sister, Eva Arenas. If you could please call me back, I’ll be home all night. I don’t know if you have my cell phone, but it’s 706-555-0119. In case I don’t answer or something. Thanks.”_

I grab a pencil and scribble the number onto the nearest pad of paper.

“ _End of messages.”_

I let the receiver droop for a second, already kind of forgetting what I was doing a couple seconds ago as I play the message back in my head. I left a message for this guy, Eva’s brother, a few hours ago. For some reason I volunteered to be the one to notify. Probably because I’m a fucking idiot.

I set the phone back in the cradle, start digging around the sea of random crap that’s already somehow managed to accumulate on my desk for the notepad where I wrote the original number. I’ll try that one first.

“Hey, Morgan,” Masuka says as I finally find the stupid thing. I look up to see him standing next to my desk, a small bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hi, Vince,” I say, dropping the pad on top of the mess.

“Angel and I are going out for drinks. Wanna join?”

My first impulse is to refuse, and I open my mouth to do it, but change my mind before I’ve said anything. “Yeah,” I amend. “But can you wait a few minutes? There’s something I’ve gotta do.”

“I can wait,” Batista chimes in from his desk. I glance over at him.

“Cool,” Masuka says, then starts grinning. “There’s always someone on the internet eagerly waiting for me to pass the time with.”

I grimace at him. “Don’t make me regret my decision.”

Wiggling his eyebrows, he turns around, goes back to his hole. The second he does I remember what I’ve got to do, and I find myself staring down at the number. Just for a second.

But it has to be done. One last thing, one of the few things I can do for Eva Arenas.

Even if it does fucking suck.

Exhaling, I reach for the receiver, start dialing.


	10. Here We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This merges into the canon sequence.

__

_Here We Go  
_ _Setting: “Waiting to Exhale”_

* * *

I exit the stall, walk over to the sink, pull the tab for hot water. Wait for it to actually get hot. When I glance at myself in the mirror, I pause, pull my hair back, brush away a speck of loose mascara. And because this is the second time I’ve been alone since the meeting, barely a half an hour ago, I’m still thinking obsessively about it.

“ _I’m just not sure you’re ready to be back, especially not out on active duty.”_

There’s steam drifting up from the faucet. I dip my hands under, hiss out a breath at the heat, reach for some soap. As I scrub I’m back there again, sitting across from Pascal’s desk, LaGuerta beside me.

“ _What do you think?”_ Pascal asked me.

“ _I want to be here, Lieutenant. I’m ready to be here. I’ve done everything I can to prove that it’s time for me to come back.”_

I don’t know why when I walked in there I didn’t expect LaGuerta to railroad me. For some reason I thought I’d gotten through to her last night. It wasn’t until that precise moment, when Pascal looked between us, that it finally occurred to me how close I am to the edge. After I found Tucci in that hospital basement, I mostly stopped worrying that LaGuerta was waiting for any excuse to punt me out of the department. That at some point along the way we’d hammered out an understanding, maybe even a modicum of mutual respect. But in that pause I felt that assurance peel away. I suddenly felt just as vulnerable as I did when I’d first gotten Matthews to temporarily transfer me over here, candy-coated as I was in the hooker suit.

“ _I understand where both of you are coming from,”_ Pascal said eventually. “ _I also recently came back from extended leave, and I remember how difficult it was to readjust. That’s actually part of the reason I transferred out of Ft. Lauderdale. I was never really able to reacclimate. Something about being around all those old, familiar people and things always brought me right back to the shooting. I don’t know whether or not it’s going to end up being the same way for you.”_

“ _It won’t,”_ I replied, the shreds of my dignity only just barely preventing me from begging with her outright. “ _It’s a relief to be back. These past two days have done more for me than a month and a half of sitting around combing over my feelings. This is where I need to be to be able to move past what happened.”_

I finally pull my hands out of the water, shut off the faucet. My skin is hot and red and angry but it feels kind of good. I grab some paper towels.

I can’t stop wondering if there’s something more I could’ve said, something better. Just… anything.

But even if what I said did suck, when Pascal spoke again it at least wasn’t to throw me back out of the job. _“Alright. I can see how much you want to be here and I’m not going to argue with you. We all deal with things in different ways. But I have to warn you, Officer Morgan, I’ll be watching you closely. Because I do agree with Maria— it’s my responsibility to keep the officers in my command and the people in my district safe, and last night you violated that. I’m putting my faith in you that that was a one-time incident.”_

“ _Thank you. I promise I won’t let you down, Lieutenant.”_

I shove the door open, hearing my own stupid words echo back at me again and again. And my fucking elbow still hurts.

Rubbing it angrily, I stop beside the vending machines. For a protracted moment I just stand here and stare at it, some small, distant percentage of my mind wanting something. As I start digging around my pockets in the hope of finding some change, I hear the hum of voices to the left, down the hall.

My hand slides out of my pocket as I turn to see Matthews surrounded by a clump of guys in suits. They’re all standing on the other side of the double doors where the rest of Violent Crimes lives. He’s talking to the tallest of the bunch: a wiry, whispy-haired, old guy. Even from this far away, I can spot the shine of golden badges.

A new thought cracks through the spiral.

_The F-B-fucking-I._

I remember last night at the bar Masuka and Batista saying that the Butcher is going to end up a federal case. Masuka wouldn’t shut the fuck up about the fact that they’d asked him to help sift through some of the shit they pulled from the water, though I tuned out most of his babbling. Even if I’d cared about what he was talking about, for some reason this news meant only one thing to me: those bodies in the bay must not have been left there by the Ice Truck Killer. Somehow they must’ve figured that out. Otherwise why would they call out the feds?

I stare at them, my chest filling with all that weird, selfish hope. Because somehow I’ve become such a fuck up that the knowledge that there’s some other serial killer running around Miami who I’m not currently having sex with takes away some of the pressure.

Suddenly, I remember something else. A name. Lundy. Batista said he was a profiler or something, that he’s the one they’re bringing in to lead the investigation, but he didn’t really know anything else about him.

I start walking in their direction, wanting to get back to my desk. I try not to watch them openly as I approach, but they’re not looking toward me anyway. They’re all focused on what the old guy is saying.

Maybe that’s him, that Lundy guy.

The temptation to stop and eavesdrop niggles at me as I reach the doors that’ll lead me back, but, before I can decide whether or not I want to try, I hear Matthews’ voice cut over the background noise.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go meet everyone.”

I’m spurred away from where I paused, start moving rapidly down the hall. I really don’t want to run into the whole pack of them alone in the hallway.

Tugging at my badge, I walk into the pen. “Captain’s coming up with that FBI guy,” I announce. Everyone looks up and over at me. “He’s got a fucking entourage.” Saying nothing else, I drop behind my desk, gaze glued in the direction I just came from. Within moments of my ass hitting the cushion, Matthews is opening the door. The agents stream down the hall without him.

For a beat we all watch them go, their arrival having effectively paralyzed the entire division.

“Alright, listen up, everyone,” Matthews says, drawing our attention back to him. “Briefing room in two minutes for show and tell.” He looks around the room, kind of glances at me, then leaves to join the suits in the other room. It occurs to me that he may’ve spotted me watching them earlier.

I hear a slight noise, the rustling of paper, turn to see Dexter standing behind me, both hands locked around a folder. He looks a little… I don’t know. Stiff or something. Behind him, I can see Masuka staring longingly toward the briefing room.

“Here we go,” I say, maybe to my brother, maybe just to myself.

He looks down at me, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Here we go.”

 


	11. Fruitless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something has always felt off to me about the picture of Rudy/Moser that was in the FBI slide show. Nothing about it makes sense to me. Like, who took it? How did the FBI get it? Why would they even use such a weird-looking image? All I can think is that that picture is something Dexter imagined, since he imagines Moser turning to talk to him, and the real image was something else entirely. Thus the discrepancy here.

__

_Fruitless  
_ _Setting: “Waiting to Exhale”_

* * *

I go to open the drawer, tug lightly on the rung. Nothing happens. I give it a sharper pull, and it shifts less than an inch, gets stuck. Losing all patience, I just yank on the fucking thing, rip it out of the dresser. Papers fly out, expand out of the drawer like popcorn: receipts, unopened mail, coupons, magazine pages, like four half-used pads of sticky notes, needles. Needles fucking everywhere.

Very carefully, I pull the stuff out in clumps, already knowing this is just another junk drawer. Below the paper I find paper clips, rubber bands, a couple loose tacks, pens, more needles— that kind of crap. Nothing useful.

Exhaling, I shove most of it back in, then reach for the next drawer.

I’m currently sifting through Eva Arenas’ living room. Batista’s a couple yards away, in the kitchen. Doakes and LaGuerta are out chatting up one of my former partner’s old snitches, trying to find anything at all that might tie Chino to the Arenas. That’s also what we’re doing here, since at the moment we don’t have any way of proving that Chino even _knew_ the Arenas family, let alone that he was responsible for slicing the shit out of them.

So far we have nothing, and I expect we’ll still have nothing when we leave. Everything in the house is just normal, people-lived-here stuff. Boring stuff. Kids stuff. Drug stuff. Spanish stuff that I can’t even fucking read anyway. The reality is that even if Chino did leave a signed confession somewhere between here and that random drawer of manuals and remotes, I’d probably mistake it for a birthday card or something.

I close this drawer. All it had in it was some kind of game console and an old keyboard and a crapload of Play-Doh. Open the last one to find a bunch of DVDs. Expecting nothing, I pull them out and start opening them one by one. Each is, as far as I can tell, exactly what it should be.

“Got anything?”

I glance over at Batista, snapping open _La bella y la bestia._ “No,” I say. “You?”

“Nope.”

I nod. He doesn’t say anything else as I go through the rest of them, put them back where they came from. As I straighten up we both look at each other, maybe just reflexively.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says casually, before I can find anything to say.

“Yeah?” I say, only a little aggressively. I go over to the couch and start pulling cushions off. Immediately find something that looks like an old blunt.

“Everything alright?”

When I glance over at him he’s looking at me innocently from behind the piles of trash all over the counter, only a small percentage of which wasn’t already there when we arrived. For a moment I think about being honest with him.

Because the truth is I’m on the razor edge of a cliff. Because even though I knew going into that briefing, even though I was waiting for it, I was not prepared to see it thrown up there like that. To see Sherry’s head and all her brown-bagged limbs arranged on the ice. To see slides and slides of body parts, white and cold and lined up side-by-side, underlined in clean, block print.

To see him. That same fucking picture they pulled off his hospital ID badge, the one that’s been circulating endlessly in the news. But four times as big, and only for a moment, because somehow that was the only way the FBI could think to communicate to us that they’ve decided he wasn’t the Butcher too.

For some reason Dexter left halfway through the presentation and never came back. I didn’t have the chance to find him and ask why. I was sucked back into the Arenas investigation before I even managed to get out of the briefing room.

Though, honestly, being here is probably the only reason I haven’t completely disintegrated.

“Peachy fucking keen,” I reply hollowly, throwing off the last cushion. Scattered along the base of the couch is a shit load of crumbs, old popcorn, hair, coins, and a couple more needles. Wrinkling my nose, I throw the cushions back, move to another random piece of furniture.

Once again, Batista’s voice drifts in from the left, “So who do you think Lundy’s gonna pick for his team?”

I squat down in front of the small entertainment system, open up both the doors. “I don’t know,” I say.

“I know Doakes is interested. I think I’ll approach Lundy too, let him know I want to be on the team.”

“Mm,” I grunt. Inside the cabinet is a combo VHS/DVD player with a fat stack of kid’s movies on top. I reach for them.

“Don’t you want to be on the task force?”

I shrug. “I doubt he’ll want someone as green as me.” Or as fucking stupid. The thought of those suits going through my file makes my insides contract into knots.

He shuffles something that sounds like paper. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I know. But it doesn’t matter what I want.” Though as much as I hate admitting it to myself, I don’t want to be on the Bay Harbor investigation. I don’t know that I could fucking stand it.

There’s nothing in these cases, or in this cabinet. Sighing, I put the last movie back.

“That’s not true,” Batista says as I get up again. “What we put out into the universe always matters.”

Something inside me hitches at his words, boils over a wall, and I look over at him. “Really?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

He looks immediately cowed. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I don’t know where he got this shiny new life philosophy or how long it’s going to last, but it’s getting on my nerves. “Let’s just change the subject.” I glance away, at the living room, which I’ve now thoroughly torn apart. Short of pulling up the carpeting or ripping out the baseboards, there’s not really much left to search. “You finding anything?”

“Just a lot of junk,” he says, shutting a drawer. “Nothing that’ll help us.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The only interesting things my search has turned up is a dimebag of heroin stashed inside a sock in Eva’s sock drawer and a bag of weed just sitting on her nightstand, right beside a well-used looking bong. Batista found similar in Rafael’s bedroom. The Arenas didn’t do much to hide their drug habits, from their daughter or the world. Chino was right about that much.

As I’ve gone through all this crap, I can’t help but wonder if Eric Hernandez, Eva’s brother, is going to come down here to go through all of it, or if he’s just gonna hire some guys to tear the place down and put it on the market. I keep imagining what it’d be like to walk into all this, to what his sister left behind.

Stupidly, despite myself, I wonder again what it would’ve been like for Dex to have had to walk into my place like this, if I had died on Rudy’s table, or off the end of that life raft. Back when I still had a place.

I stoop down, pick up a cheap, plastic horse. Force my thoughts back to the Arenas, back to anything. Back to the daughter. Ramos said Eric is taking her. And as I look around this shit hole, some part of me thinks that maybe that’s for the best.

I set the horse on the coffee table, on top of a pile of children’s books. “Ready to call it?” I ask, turning to look at Batista.

“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t think there’s anything here.”

I walk in his direction, pluck the heroin we found off the counter. “Hate to say it, but unless Ramos gets something out of her kid, we may be screwed on this.”

“For her sake, I hope she doesn’t know anything,” he says, picking up a couple pill bottles he found in the bathroom.

I glance behind us at the living room again, at the clash of children’s toys and garbage and all the barely-hidden drug paraphernalia. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

Forty seconds later I’m walking to the car as Batista locks and seals the front door. From looking at the pavement, there’s no evidence at all of what happened here yesterday. Not a speck of blood, a scrap of scene tape.

Before I’ve reached the car I notice that kid from yesterday sitting on his bike across the street. The second we make eye contact he flips me the bird.

“Got anything helpful to say?” I call, leaning slightly against the car.

He yells something back in Spanish. I think I catch the word “ _puta_ ” somewhere in there, which is one of the few Spanish words I understand. Then he glides away.

“Fuck you too,” I murmur, unlocking and opening the door.

“Making friends?” Batista’s voice comes in from behind me.

“Wherever I go,” I reply, then look back at him. “What did he say?”

He shrugs. “Well, basically that he thinks you’re a fucking whore.”

“That’s nice.” I lean into the car, stick the drug crap in the safe welded into the center compartment. Batista hands me what he’s holding and I throw that in too, then lock the safe.

“You should really consider taking a Spanish class or something,” he says as I get up.

I slam the door, make a face at him. “It’s on my to-do list.”

“How far down?”

I glare at him, and he grins at me. “Just giving you a hard time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, jamming the key in the lock.

“Ready to go knock on some doors?”

I turn to him, repocketing the keys. “So fucking ready.”

He pats my shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”

Feeling utterly without hope, I follow him down the sidewalk, that stupid kid’s little jeer echoing around my skull.

 


	12. Running

__

_Running  
_ _Setting: “Waiting to Exhale”_

* * *

I wake up slowly, to random, indistinct sounds from the TV and the hum of the AC unit. When I turn over to look at the clock, the numbers read a blurry 6:49. Exhaling, I throw the blankets off, roll out of bed, go over to the TV and turn it off.

I didn’t really sleep. It was one of the worst nights I’ve had in weeks. It kept melting together, every time I tried to relax. I had to keep moving my arms around, just to remind myself that they weren’t taped together, that I wasn’t strapped down.

Rubbing my neck, I open the door to the hall and trudge toward the bathroom. Before closing the door I poke my head into the living room, check to see if Dexter came back last night, but I don’t see him or any evidence that he slept here. Shrugging to myself, I leave the door open, head for the toilet.

Something like ten minutes later I move into the kitchen with contacts in and my fingernails newly trimmed. I’m still wiping off my face and the back of my neck with a hand towel, which I end up throwing on the counter before grabbing and filling up my water bottle. Because I have to run. Because I’ve barely been awake and already the thoughts are pressing in, loud and horrible and completely uncontrollable.

As I toss the bottle into the treadmill, I think vaguely about what my shrink would say if she knew how bad it still is, if she’d rescind her recommendation that I be let back on the force. And then of course I remember yesterday, the morning meeting with the two lieutenants, and that poor asshole at the gym.

Maybe, if I’m honest with myself, I probably shouldn’t be back yet. But there’s nowhere else I feel safe anymore, where I’m not scared shitless.

I go out into the living room and start digging through the closet I’ve taken over, try to find something to wear that’s not totally sweated through. Finding nothing clean, I just grab what I wore a couple nights ago and start changing on the spot. It’s already getting late and I don’t fucking care anyway.

My skin seems to be crawling as I practically jog back to the bedroom, pull my sneakers out from where they somehow ended up half under the bed and shove my feet into them. After clambering onto the treadmill I force myself to pause, for just a moment, to try to quell some of the fear building in my chest, to try to remember all that stupid shit Wheeler said to me. That I’m here. That I can smell old sweat from my clothes, hear the refrigerator chugging in the other room, feel my heart tapping in my neck. That I know what’s happening to me. That he’s dead and ground to nothing, and that he has been for a long time now.

But it doesn’t help, and I give up quickly. Scoop the remote up off the bed and turn on the TV again. Climb back onto the treadmill. Because all I can seem to do anymore is run in place.

My legs ache pleasantly as I take a sip of water and crank up the speed. Thankfully, finally, the terror starts to ebb away. I try to imagine it flowing off my back, like water, or like some other equally ineffective metaphor, as I look back at the TV.

It’s the infomercial about that bullet blender thing. I’ve probably seen it ten thousand times at this point, but for some reason I don’t change the channel.

“… _you ground coffee, and you mixed up two different types of muffin batter in that thing. What the heck is it?”_

“ _It’s the Magic Bullet!”_

“ _The personal, versatile, counter-top magician!”_

I settle into a nice cruising pace, my attention drifting blissfully between the screen and the sound of my footfalls. For some reason I find myself once again wondering what I would do with one of these bullet things if I had one. It always looks so easy and simplistic. Of course, I hate cooking and I’m way too fucking lazy to try any of this shit anyway.

Still, I enjoy the thought of salsa and chicken salad and tomato sauce and blended drinks, of them being as effortless as advertised. I imagine them being brought to me on a TV tray on a sunny Saturday morning.

The phone rings, cutting through these thoughts. I zone back in to the sound.

“… _homemade pesto sauce. Now all you need to do is pour it over your pasta. Look at that.”_

The phone isn’t in the bedroom, and it’s not even my phone. If it’s work and they’re calling for Dexter, I don’t really want to answer anyway. I know half the station knows I’m living with my brother, but I don’t think LaGuerta and Pascal do, and I’d like to keep it that way.

Soon the ringing stops. I keep on running.

I’ve just started drifting back into that pleasant place of non-thoughts when something buzzes on the dresser. When I look over there I see my cell is lit up and vibrating against the lamp.

Curiosity piqued, I hit the stop button, jump off and grab the phone. “Hello?” I answer, pressing it to my ear.

“Hi, Deb, it’s Rita.”

Her voice sounds frazzled. “Hey,” I say, unsure why she’s calling me. “What’s up?”

“I’m looking for Dexter. He was supposed to be here this morning. Is he there?”

“No.” I feel something ping in my chest. “I thought he was with you.”

Her breath hits the receiver. “Why? When did he leave?”

“Last night.” I find myself glancing into the living room, as if to make sure my brother hasn’t actually been in there this whole time. He hasn’t. “He said he was going bowling and he never came back. I assumed he went to your place.” I pause. “You mean he wasn’t with you last night?”

“No,” her voice sounds even more strained. “No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.”

I start running through possible places my brother could be. Immediately, insanely, I can’t help but imagine that he’s dead in his car somewhere.

In my silence, Rita continues, “It’s Paul’s funeral today. The kids want him there. Honestly, I want him there too.”

“Yeah, of course.” I start walking out of the bedroom, now wondering if he might’ve left a note or something that I missed.

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

None whatsoever. And there’s nothing on the fridge or his desk. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe work?”

“Yeah. I’ll try calling the station next.”

I glance around the empty apartment, at the couch where he should’ve spent the night. “I’m sorry I don’t know where he is.”

“Well, if you do see him, tell him the funeral’s at 10. Tell him to come to my place before then.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah.” It occurs to me that I should say something about Paul, or about the funeral. “Good luck with today,” is all I can think of.

There’s a very slight pause. “Thanks,” she says. And then she hangs up.

I set the phone on the counter, a new fear eating at my stomach.

Where the fuck is he?

I wipe sweat from my forehead, grab my phone again and dial his number. It rings and rings, dumps to his voice mail.

“Hey, Dex, where the fuck are you?” I say after the beep. “Call me.”

Clicking off, I try to think of everywhere he could possibly be, come up with nothing besides Rita’s place, here, and work. As far as I know, Dexter doesn’t have any friends outside of the people at the station, and I can’t imagine him crashing on any of their couches. Distantly, I wonder if he could be fucking around, but the thought doesn’t make any sense. My brother loves Rita and those kids. He’d never do something like that.

Which leaves the other possibility— that he wrapped around a telephone pole last night, that he’s dead or dying in a hospital or something.

I can’t stop the surge of anxiety as I dial my phone again, just to make sure I didn’t miss a call. But when I reach my own voice mail, there’s nothing waiting for me there.

So where is he?

“… _and just add a splash of orange juice or, for you party animals, your favorite liqueur.”_

“ _Like you.”_

I head back into the bedroom and turn the TV off. Not really knowing what to do, I pull the bottle out of the treadmill and take a drink, glance at the clock. 7:34. I have to get ready for work.

If he was dead, wouldn’t someone from patrol have called me by now?

Am I just being insane?

Even though I probably am, I find myself punching Rita’s number into my phone.

It rings twice before she answers, “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Deb again,” I say. “You call the station?”

“Yeah,” she says. “They said he’s not there.”

Not that I really expected him to be…

“Should I be worried?” she voices my own question.

“I don’t think so,” I say, because it’s probably the truth.

Sounds of the phone adjusting. “Where do you think he is?”

“I don’t know.” But before she can say anything else, I add, “But I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”

“I hope so.” She pauses. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. When you see him, just have him call me, alright?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Thanks.”

We exchange goodbyes and hang up. For a moment I don’t move, stare down at my phone. I debate calling him again. _“Hey, fucktard,”_ I’d say to his voice mail. _“What the fuck? Call me.”_

I start dialing, but stop myself halfway through the number. Because he’s probably fine, just being an inconsiderate jackass, like usual. And I really don’t have time for this.

I go out and connect my phone to the charger, leave it on the kitchen counter. Then I make sure the volume’s all the way up, in case he calls me back. It’s a full second before I force myself away from it, to head around the counter for the bathroom.

I’m just making myself crazy. He’ll probably have called me back by the time I get out of the shower. And even if he doesn’t, my desk is like three yards from his office. I’ll see him at work.

Doubting my own reassurances, I twist the knob for the shower, then start hunting around for a clean towel.


	13. Have Faith

__

_Have Faith  
_ _Setting: “Waiting to Exhale”_

* * *

Panting from the chase and the hot, sticky air, I push my hair back, pace around and around again. The world seems to be spinning away from me in a technicolor blur.

“Are you alright, kid?” Batista’s voice filters in.

I turn to see him moving toward the child I just drew on. He’s still lying on the ground where I tackled him, eyes squeezed shut.

Dropping my arm, I watch as Batista stops beside him and offers his hand. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re alright.”

The kid opens his eyes and looks up at the detective for half a second before his attention flicks over to me. Somewhere down deep, that part of me that’s still connected to reality recognizes the terror in his face. And I remember I’m still holding my gun.

When I don’t do anything, the kid rolls over and pushes to his feet. Halfway up, Batista takes his arm— lightly, but enough to prevent him from bolting again if he tries.

“It’s okay,” the detective repeats. “What’s your name?”

The kid’s gaze goes back to me, then down to my gun. And even though that tiny, sane voice in my head is telling me I need to holster it, the message isn’t reaching my fingers. I can’t seem to loosen my grip.

Something is roaring in my ears. Too loud.

( _jesus fucking fuck_ )

“Joey.”

( _jesus fucking christ_ )

“And your last name?”

( _what the fuck is wrong with me_ )

( _broken I’m broken I’m broken_ )

“Come on. What’s your last name?”

“Nunez.”

( _jesus fuck_ )

“Alright, Joey. Are you okay?”

He glances at me again, nods.

“Good.” Batista shifts so that he’s between me and Nunez. “Now, tell me what you’re talking about. You said you know where the 29th Street Kings operate?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause, and I find myself staring at the back of Batista’s shirt. Now that I can’t see the kid, some of the pressure is flowing away, yielding to the prickly sanity of dread. Finally I regain a connection with my arm, and I reach back to holster my gun, clip it into place.

“It’s Kendall Quality Auto Repair,” Nunez says. “They just got a bunch of shit in this morning.”

“What kind of shit?”

“You know, drugs and some more guns and shit. That’s where they keep everything.”

He sighs. “And how do you know this?”

“Because I’ve fucking seen it. Now would you let me go?”

“No. I’m walking you home.” He turns to look at me. He’s still holding the kid’s elbow. “Morgan, go ahead and call this in,” he says, his face totally neutral. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

I have to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Okay,” I say. Suddenly I notice the sharp, unpleasant musk of urine, and now that I can see the kid again I realize his pants are wet.

( _jesus the little shit pissed himself_ )

I look back at Batista, push my bangs back. “I’ll see you at the car.”

He nods, then looks down at Nunez. “Alright, let’s go.”

I don’t wait to watch them go, just take off immediately in the direction we ran from. As I walk the last five minutes of my life are already playing back in flash frame. I remember bringing Nunez down like he was a fucking gazelle. I remember cocking my gun and pressing it against his jaw, my thoughts disintegrating to red powder.

Residual adrenaline pours down my legs like seeds in a rain stick.

Everything’s still so fucked. Every time I think maybe I’m starting to manage it, every time I think I can remember who I am, it’s ripped away again. What the fuck just happened to me?

( _jesus fuck what if I’d pulled that trigger_ )

( _I shouldn’t even fucking be alive_ )

( _what if I really am dead what if he killed me that night what if he cut me to pieces_ )

( _broken broken broken_ _ **broken**_ _**BROKEN BROKEN**_ )

I pull my hair back, take a breath, force it to stop. Force myself to focus on something, anything, everything else. All the little, present details: sun, grass, hanging laundry, the heat and the humidity and the pavement under my boots. Every time my thoughts start to slip away I hold onto all these things, until finally I can trust myself to think again.

Kendall Quality Auto Repair.

For some reason that’s what I land on.

Kendall Quality Auto Repair. I wonder if Chino or some other gangbanger came up with the name, or if they just took over the business. Assuming Nunez wasn’t full of shit and the Kings really are using the place.

Jesus fuck, what the fuck am I going to say to Pascal?

I turn the corner, finally spot our car sitting where we left it, its new tags fresh on the hood. I feel a flush of anger at seeing the paint, but it’s quickly washed away by shame. I have no idea what I’m going to say to my lieutenant. If I tell her the truth it’ll be the end of me, immediately, though frankly I deserve it. I never should’ve come back.

I try not to even fucking look at the tag as I reach the car and unlock the door. Once it’s open I slip inside and drop into the seat, leave the door ajar. I don’t know how long I sit here before I reach under the seat and pull out my purse, start digging around for my phone. When I finally find the thing, I pull it out, turn it between my fingers.

What the fuck do I say?

As I stare down at it, I notice the little notification light is blinking. Brows creasing, I flip it open, see I’ve got a missed call. Dexter.

Something hot flashes through me. Quickly, I dial my voice mail, lean back against the seat. I press my boot against the dash as the tinny voice tells me I have one new message.

“ _Hey, Deb, it’s me. Sorry I missed your calls. My phone was off. I’m with Rita at Paul’s funeral. It looks like it’s going to be awhile. I’ll see you later at work.”_ Pause. _“Okay, bye.”_

I pull the phone away, stare down at it incredulously. His phone was off? What?

Rage burns everything else away. I punch in his number, words already pushing up my throat.

The call dumps immediately to voice mail.

“Jesus eff fuck, Dexter, where the fuck were you?” I snarl. “You can’t just fucking disappear without telling anyone where you’re going. For all I knew you were upside down in a fucking ditch somewhere.”

I inhale, start to say something else, but stop myself. Exhaling, I remove the phone from my ear, kill the call. Then I dig my fingers into my forehead, screw my eyes shut. Pain and anger and fear ripple through my core in waves, sear my eyes.

( _fuck I am so fucked I am so royally ass fucked_ )

( _I fucking deserve it god fucking damn it_ )

“Hey.”

I jump, drop my hand. When I look around I find Batista standing next to the door, his face pinched in concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

I laugh humorlessly. “Oh, I’m just fucking great,” I say, looking away.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then, “Wanna talk about it?”

I look back at him as another wave of pain slams against the base of my tongue. “I don’t know,” I say, clearing my throat. “What happened to the kid? Nunez?”

He shrugs. “He took me to a house down the block from where you stopped him, said it was his. Of course, nobody was home, so who knows.”

“Think he was telling the truth about that auto shop?”

Another shrug. “Could be. Either way, it’s the closest we’ve had to a lead since we got this case.” He pauses. “You call it in?”

I shake my head, look away again. “No.” I laugh shortly, nervously. “I don’t know what the fuck to say.”

He nods. For a long moment he says nothing, and when I glance up at him I see he’s looking around the neighborhood. Eventually he looks back down at me. “Want to take a break? Get some coffee or something?”

I don’t know. No, not really. “Sure,” I say.

He opens the door a little wider. “Why don’t you let me drive?”

I want to refuse, but instead I nod. “Alright,” I say, getting out of the car.

“Keys?” he asks.

I glance inside. “They’re in the ignition,” I say, barely remembering putting them there.

“Thanks.”

The car rocks as he plops himself inside. As I go around to the other side and open the door, he’s already messing with the seat and the mirrors. After I sit, I pull up my own seat, then slam the door and settle back.

Neither of us say anything as he pulls away from the curb and heads out of the neighborhood, but the silence is heavy. I realize I want to talk to him, to spill some of this fucked-up shit that’s dissolving me alive, because I feel like he might understand, but every time I try to say something the words die on my lips. I don’t know where to start. And all I can think about is that second I unclipped my gun from its holster and pulled the hammer back, how it felt to press the muzzle against that kid’s neck. I go over it, over and over and over again.

“Knew I saw a Starbucks around here,” Batista murmurs to himself. I blink, refocus on the highway as he hits the blinker, takes a right into a strip mall. He goes around the building, pulls into the drivethru. There are only a couple other cars in line.

“Know what you want?” he asks as he rolls down the window, looking at the menu board.

I glance at it, voice the first thought that comes to mind, “An iced vanilla latte.”

“Think I’ll get a caramel frappuccino and a sandwich. You want anything to eat?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Okay.” Nodding to himself, he reaches out the window, presses the button on the intercom.

As he orders my thoughts boomerang back. I remember what LaGuerta said about me not being ready, my promise that she was wrong. I remember sitting in that FBI briefing, watching slides of body parts flash across the screen as Lundy talked about the Ice Truck Killer as if he knew everything about him.

I remember last night, when I dreamt of being shut back in that trunk, dropped on top of Fred Harvey’s corpse. Waking up terrified. Over and over.

Batista pulls up to the first window, starts handing the guy inside a bill.

“Oh,” I murmur, snapping out of it. I reach for my purse. “Hold on.”

“It’s okay,” Batista says, pushing his money on the guy. “Don’t worry about it.”

The guy glances at me, then takes the money.

“Thanks,” I say as he hands Batista his change.

“Of course,” he says. He flashes me a smile as he shoves the bills into his wallet, then pockets it and the change.

“It’ll be ready at the next window,” Starbucks guy says.

We both look at him. Batista nods, shifts the car out of park.

A few minutes later we’re turning into a shady space in front of a neighboring mattress store. Batista parks and lets it idle, leans back in his seat. I take a sip of my drink as he pulls the straw out of his and sucks the whipped cream off the end.

I set the coffee on my knee, feel the plastic sweat into my palms. “I’m so fucked, Angel,” I say quietly, staring down at it.

He looks over at me, but I can’t summon the courage to meet his eyes.

“Pascal put me on probation. The second this gets back to her…” I trail off, swallow a rush of nausea. “Jesus fuck,” I mutter, pressing a couple fingers to my temple.

He doesn’t say anything for a second, but I can feel his gaze on me. “Why are you on probation?” he asks.

I laugh, kind of choke on it. “Coz my first day back I fucking clocked a guy in a bar who touched my arm.” I push my fingers back, pull some hair behind my ears. “Everyone can see I’m drowning. I’m the only one denying it.”

“You know we all understand,” he says, “after going through what you did. It’s okay to give yourself a break.”

“Try telling that to Joey Nunez.” I glance at him, then away again. The eye contact hurts.

“Hey,” he says. “Frankly, that little shit had it coming.”

I bark out another laugh, feeling close to tears.

Hesitantly, after a beat, he reaches across the car, touches my shoulder. Despite myself, I flinch away, and I feel a flood of self-hatred as he retracts.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“No, I…” I stop, touch my collar. “Fuck. Everything’s just so fucked.”

“You’re going to be okay, Deb. It’ll just take time. We all understand that.”

I just shake my head. I don’t know what to say.

I still don’t know why I survived, why I’m even sitting here. I don’t know that it’ll ever get better.

“Listen,” he says when I don’t reply. “Don’t worry about what happened with Nunez. Nobody got hurt. Who knows, it may even have taught him a valuable lesson about screwing around with cops.”

I look at him, pain swelling in my chest. I want to argue with him, but I can’t find the words.

“I won’t report what happened, and he sure as shit isn’t going to either. We can claim the tip came from someone who wants to stay anonymous coz they’re afraid the gang might retaliate. Honestly, after what happened to Eva, I wouldn’t feel too comfortable about putting Nunez’s name in my report anyway. Somehow I doubt Chino would hesitate to have the kid whacked.”

My heart squeezes so hard it stops my breath. “No, I can’t let you lie for me,” I manage to say. “You’d be in such deep shit if anyone found out.”

He shakes his head. “No one’s gonna find out. And you don’t deserve to be crucified over this.”

I choke back a breath, taste something salty. “What if I’d fucking shot him, Angel?”

“But you didn’t. And you wouldn’t have. Deb.” He stops. He doesn’t continue until I force myself to look at him again. “I believe in you,” he says. “You’re going to get through this. You just have to have some faith in yourself, okay?”

Tears burn in my eyes. I sniff, swipe them away.

“Really,” he says. “Everything’s going to be fine. You know, just as long as you don’t fuck up around LaGuerta or something.”

I don’t know whether the sound that escapes me is a laugh or a sob. “Thanks,” I say when I trust myself to speak. “Really. Thank you.”

He smiles at me, raises his sugary-ass frappuccino to his lips. “I’ve just gotten used to having you around again.” He takes a long sip. “Go ahead. Call this in to Pascal. If this tip is legit, I have a feeling it’ll pull you out of her dog house forever.”

I don’t move. “You’re sure?”

He doesn’t lower his drink. “I’m sure,” he says, then takes another sip.

I let a couple seconds pass. I shouldn’t allow him to do this, but that part of me that’s a selfish piece of shit, that desperately, more than anything, wants to stay on the job, is overriding my reluctance. Finally I reach for my purse, find my phone and pull it out. “Thanks,” I say again, squeezing my phone.

He makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture, exchanging his drink for the sandwich sitting on his lap.

I clear my throat, start dialing.

 


	14. Breathe

__

_Breathe  
_ _Setting: “Waiting to Exhale”_

* * *

“ _Hey, Deb, it’s me. Again. Probably at the gym. Again. Look, I’ve got some unfinished business outside the office so I’ll probably be a little late tonight. I’ll catch up with you later.”_

After deleting the message I click my phone off, lean back against my car. For a long moment I just stand in silence, sipping slowly from my water bottle, listening to cars rush down the road. Breathe. My arms are tired and my wrists are sore, but I feel better than I did when I got here, maybe even better than I’ve felt the last couple days.

Thank god.

After awhile I turn around and open the door, throw my shit onto the passenger seat. Still holding onto my phone and keys, I plop into the car, stretch my legs out. I look at the phone for awhile, think about calling my brother back and what I’d say if he answered, or what I’d say to his voice mail if he didn’t, but eventually I give up on the thought, toss my phone into my purse. Whatever. I’ll see him at home.

You know, assuming he’s there this time.

I stick my keys into the ignition, but pause before turning them over. Because it’s nice outside. Last night’s storm has long since passed, was replaced by mostly clear skies, and the humidity’s finally lifted a couple percentage points. I press the button for the top, glance up at the sky as the roof retracts. Breathe. I can smell fried chicken coming from the KFC across the street.

Once the top’s all the way back, I turn the engine over, hit the radio button. Coz even if I feel better, I’m not sure I trust myself to silence yet.

Cranking it up, I start navigating back to the highway. But even with the music, my thoughts are trickling back.

Last night’s nightmares. Dexter. Joey Nunez. The bust. The conversation I had with the lieutenants just before I left work for the gym. It’s all sort of running together, like everything happened over the course of a couple days. This is the first time I’ve been still long enough to sort through it all.

After I called in Nunez’s tip, Pascal ran the name of the auto shop by a couple people in Vice. Turns out they were familiar with the place. I’m still not sure what happened except that by the time Batista and I met up with LaGuerta and Doakes the department had already gotten clearance to raid the place. We reached the shop shortly before SWAT did, joined the boys in donning flack jackets and storming the building.

For the second time in a couple hours I drew my pistol, but this time it wasn’t out of some thoughtless, anxiety-fueled impulse. I felt bizarrely calm in the chaos, like everything was slowing to half time as we cornered the Kings in their nest. True to Nunez’s word, the place was packed full of shit— drugs, guns, and money. A fucking legal trifecta. And all without any of us firing a shot. Despite all their firepower and bravado, none of the gangbangers tried to turn the raid into a standoff.

And just like that we scooped up most of the Kings, all but obliterated them in the course of an afternoon. Even though Chino slipped the net, this is the biggest win the department’s had in a long time. Maybe it’ll go a ways toward repairing all the damage the ITK did to it. That I did to it.

I stop at a light, turn the radio knob. I can’t find anything I like.

After the bust Pascal pulled me in for another meeting between her and LaGuerta. Batista insisted I was the one who flipped the witness, that I was the one to thank for the tip, and Pascal was as animated as I’ve ever seen her as she congratulated me for it. And even though I felt like a lying shitheel for not countering her praise with the truth, it was still a relief. For the first time since yesterday morning, I could breathe. Unless something royally fucked happens, I think I may be safe. I’ve been back less than a week and was key to a major bust. Even LaGuerta seemed past her reservations, for once.

The light turns green, and I tap the gas, throw my arm lazily over the side of the car. The air feels fucking good against my sweaty skin.

Before I left I pulled Batista aside and thanked him again. I don’t think he truly understands what he’s done for me, what he’s given me, and I wasn’t able to figure out how to express it. In the end he waved me off, told me to go home and just enjoy the win.

I don’t know why the fuck he believes in me, why he even trusts me after what happened to him. Why he doesn’t blame me. At this point all I can do is make sure I don’t let him down.

I sigh as I get caught at the next light, even though there’s no one in the cross lane. Tapping the wheel, I look around. My gaze catches on a huge ass banner hanging off the side of an apartment complex. _‘Now leasing!’_ it says. _‘Studio, one and two-bedroom apartments!’_

I stare at it. I’ve probably driven by the building a couple hundred times, but this is the first time I’ve really noticed it. It’s a squat building, only about four stories tall. Newish construction. Decently manicured lawn. Palm trees. Couple minute drive to a Publix and the gym, on a road that doesn’t get too congested.

Suddenly, for the first time in a long time, I miss my apartment. Really miss it.

Green light again. I pull forward, look away from the building.

Most of my shit is sitting in a storage unit near my old apartment. Even though I’ve been living with my brother for almost two months now, I’ve purposefully avoided bringing anything to his place except the bare essentials. This situation was always meant to be temporary, even if it has gone on way longer than I ever thought it would. It’s been so long that I’ve gotten used to it, unfortunately.

I think about today, about the last couple days of Dexter arguing with me about my slovenliness, about him trying to show me apartment listings. I think about how terrifying it was to realize he was gone this morning, how vulnerable I felt. I think about what him and Batista and Wheeler and everyone else keep saying to me, that everything’ll get better eventually, and how much that hasn’t felt true.

Maybe it’s time to end the co-dependence, to get back on my feet. I’ve clung to my brother so long and so desperately that I can’t remember how to feel safe by myself anymore, and at this rate I probably never will.

And, besides, I’d be surprised if he isn’t completely sick of me and the shit hurricanes I can’t seem to stop producing.

I move into the left lane, slow down and make u-ey. I used to live in this neighborhood, spent the last several years here. While I’m here I could just look around and see if there’s anything available. I know that place back there isn’t the only one with signs. There’s a building that went up recently that’s not too far from here that I always thought looked kind of nice. Maybe I could see myself there.

Maybe. I don’t know.

If I’m honest I don’t want to leave yet, and, as pathetic as it is, I’m not even sure I’m brave enough. But the reality is that he’s dead, and that I’m not, and that I have to keep moving forward. I can’t let him hold this from me, and I can’t hide forever.

I flip the radio off, speed up to get through a yellow light.

Especially coz he’ll always follow me anyway.


	15. Catch, Release

__

_Catch, Release  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?”

Nod.

“Verbally, please.”

He pauses, sniffs. “Yeah.”

“Alright. Now…” Batista trails off, folds his hands on the table. “Tell me again what happened, but the truth this time.”

A look of bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

I feel the last pellet of my patience strike bottom. “He means we have your girlfriend sitting in the other room,” I cut in. “Wanna guess who she’s pointing the finger at?”

His wide, blood-shot eyes focus on me like the aperture of a hungover camera. “Who?” he asks stupidly.

My lips part as I look at him incredulously. “You,” _numbnuts,_ I add silently.

“Me?” he repeats.

“Yes, you.” I look at him for a second longer, waiting for him to catch up. And even though he still seems confused by the whole concept of himself, I stab the manila envelope sitting on the table next to me with a finger, drag it in front of him. “Luckily for you, we already know you didn’t stab your wife, Mr. Andress,” I say, flipping it open to reveal the complicated jumble of Dexter’s report, which I know this guy isn’t going to understand at all.

He stares down at it. Several seconds drag by before he looks up again. “You do?” he asks, at long last.

I fight the impulse to grab the folder, roll it up, and smack him over the back of the head with it.

“We do,” Batista takes up my slack. “This report says that the person who stabbed your wife was somewhere between 5’3” and 5’5”. You told us earlier that you’re 6’2”.”

He stares at him blankly.

“You know who _is_ between 5’3” and 5’5”?” I ask.

“Lots of people,” he says after a beat, which is probably the most intelligent thing he’s said so far.

“Yes,” I counter, “but only one of those people is currently trying to pin a homicide on you.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to make me out from across a long field. “I don’t believe you.”

My fist curls on the table. “How do you think we found you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe you tracked my phone or something.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, this isn’t a spy movie, Mr. Andress. Your girlfriend, Ms. McKinley, she gave you up, and now she’s blaming you for a homicide we know you didn’t commit.”

When he doesn’t reply, Batista fills the void, “Why do you think she would do that?”

“No,” Andress says finally. “I don’t believe you. Liz would never do that to me.”

“She would and she did,” I say.

“No. You’re making this up.” He starts to stand.

“Sit down, Mr. Andress,” Batista says.

“You’re fucking full of shit,” he says, taking a step around the table. The second he does, Batista and I are both on our feet.

“Sit down,” the detective says again.

“You can’t hold me.”

“Actually, we can. You’re under arrest, Mr. Andress. Now sit down.”

He stares between the two of us, as if only just seeing us for the first time. My hand shifts slightly, impulsively, toward my firearm. “Why?” he asks. “If you think I didn’t do it, why am I under arrest?”

“As I already explained to you, Mr. Andress, you have been arrested as an accessory to murder. You may not have stabbed your wife, but you fled the scene with Ms. McKinley and attempted to leave the state.”

Something weird floats through his eyes, glazes them over with a film of Vaseline.

“Sit down,” I say, my muscles tensing.

His gaze flicks down to my gun, then back up at me. For a long moment, none of us move or say anything. Just as the pressure seems to be hitting a breaking point, he finally steps back, drops back into his chair.

“I want a lawyer,” he announces, folding his arms in front of his chest.

 _Fucking of course you do._ I exhale.

“Okay,” Batista says. “Do you have an attorney you’d like us to contact?”

“No. But you can get one for me, right?”

“Of course.”

“Then do that. And not some fucking pimply-faced aid. I want a real lawyer.”

“Of course, Mr. Andress.” Batista smiles at him mildly. “I’ll arrange for someone to meet with you as soon as possible.”

“Good.” He leans back in his seat, stares pointedly at the corner of the room. “I’m done talking now.”

“Alright,” Batista says, then reaches for the folders on the table. One by one he closes them, stacks them together. After collecting it all he straightens, looks down at Andress. “We’ll be seeing you soon.”

He says nothing. Just keeps staring at the corner.

Batista nods at me, then moves to the door. I follow him out, hold the door as the detective tells the officer standing outside it— Torres —to go in and sit with Andress.

Once he’s inside, I let the door shut behind him, blow out a breath. “Guy’s got fucking oatmeal for brains,” I say.

“Love makes you do crazy things,” Batista deadpans.

I scoff loudly, start walking back toward the pen.

“Anyway,” he continues as he follows me, “I’ll start calling around for a lawyer. Why don’t you take fifteen? Maybe I’ll have someone on the phone by then.”

“Yeah, so I get to be the one to walk him down to booking?” I ask, trying to sound more annoyed than I am.

He grins at me. “Yeah.”

I make a face but don’t argue with him. Honestly, at the moment I could use a break. And some coffee.

We both head to our desks. I grab my mug and phone off my partially-clear blotter, head to the break area. There’s nothing waiting for me on my phone, so I pocket it, then dump out the cold coffee in my mug and check the coffee pot. Finding it empty, I go to make some more, my thoughts already drifting away.

It’s Monday. Somehow it’s already been a week since I came back, and even though things still don’t feel exactly normal, they feel like they could eventually get there. Thank god.

I was officially moved onto Batista’s case this morning, since over the weekend state patrol picked up Tim Andress and Liz McKinley, the two primary suspects in the case of the murdered codeine junkie he’s been working for the past couple weeks, just outside of Jacksonville. The search for Chino has been dead in the water since he left the station on Wednesday. It’s still an active case, but Friday was one long reach around, so I’m glad Pascal bumped me to Batista’s investigation instead. LaGuerta and Doakes have been in a pissy mood most of the day, since none of us can figure out how a guy the size of Saskatoon managed to disappear into thin air.

Meanwhile, the Butcher investigation is starting to pick up speed, at least as fast as feds ever move. At some point between Friday and today a huge ass temporary morgue suddenly sprouted up across the parking lot. It’s filled with body parts and whatever else they brought up from the bay. Other than Pascal and Matthews, Masuka’s the only one from our department who’s been inside so far. Already he won’t shut the fuck up about “the tent” and some conversation he had with Special Agent Lundy that I couldn’t have less interest in and, therefore, know nothing about.

The coffee maker starts gurgling. I shift my weight to one foot, watch as it slowly starts to drip.

Saturday was… okay. I had my second-to-last meeting with Wheeler, or what was supposed to be my second-to-last meeting. While most of last week’s fuck ups managed to stay private, both the bar assault and the incident with the morons at the pier reached the shrink. I suspect she knew I was hiding things from her as she made me talk, but nothing short of electrified thumb screws could’ve gotten me to admit more. Instead I tried steering the conversation over to Dexter, to the fact that he told me he wants me to stay, and to other personal, but safer, topics. Whether the fact that she wants a few more sessions with me is because she saw through my bullshit or because Pascal requested it, I don’t know. Maybe some combination thereof. I was just happy to get the fuck out of there and hit the gym.

Sunday almost couldn’t pass fast enough.

The pot’s just about done. I pull it out, fill my mug almost to the top, then reach for and dump in some Coffee-Mate that’s probably been sitting on the counter since this morning. Stir it up.

As I drink my gaze drifts over to the briefing room. For once, it looks empty.

The current gossip is that Lundy’s finalizing his picks for his task force. We’d all half-expected him to announce them today, but I at least have hardly seen hide nor hair of him all day.

I’m almost glad about it. Every time I think about that case my heart picks up and my blood starts buzzing with a giddy, drunken sort of dread.

I take another sip of coffee, still staring at the briefing room, at the boards I can only barely make out.

Though that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.

Without really deciding to do it, I start walking over there. Even as I leave the pen and walk up to the doors, I don’t know why I’m doing it. I just feel compelled, like I’m being tugged along by a small, invisible thread. To the edge of a cliff.

I open the doors and step inside. My gaze is drawn instantly to the rows and rows and rows of pictures on the boards. Full color and glossy, neatly aligned. Bloody and cold.

It takes my breath away.

And in an instant I’m back in the morgue, watching the coroner unwrap the body parts of a Jane Doe we were never able to identify. I remember walking across the ice to find what was left of Sherry Taylor stacked under the goal net. Walking into that hospital basement to find Tucci half-dead and covered in his own blood and piss, left gift wrapped under a spotlight for me to find.

I met him at the hospital. He made Tucci’s prosthetics. For the limbs he sectioned off and left scattered all over the city, for some sick fucking reason we never knew.

We stole a bottle of champagne from the party, drank through it on the hood of his car…

I swallow, stare at the pictures.

Is this how he would’ve left me?

“Hello.”

I jump, slosh burning hot coffee all over my hand. “Jesus shit fuck,” I hiss, turning, my eyes already watering. And as I do the blood drains away from my extremities.

Because Lundy is standing in the doorway, thermos in hand.

“Agent Lundy,” I say dumbly.

“Officer Morgan,” he says. And even though he couldn’t be standing there any more placidly, there’s an intensity to his gaze that makes me nervous, like maybe he knows what I’m thinking. “How are you?”

I’m trapped in the shards of a bunch of fragmented, terrifying memories, and suddenly I can’t remember how the hell I even ended up in here. Blinking, I try to pull myself together. “I’m good, sir,” I say. “How are you?”

“Much better now that I’m indoors again,” he says, walking closer to me. My heart pounds harder with every step. “I just flew in from Boston, so I’m not used to the heat here.”

I’ve never been to Boston. “I’d think it’d be a relief,” I say, unable to think of anything else.

“I like cold winters.” He smiles in his strange, amiable way. “Makes you appreciate the spring.”

There’s something so disarming about him that it’s making me feel increasingly off-balance. “I guess,” I say. “Anyway, I—”

“Have any insights to share?” he cuts through, nodding at the board I was staring at before. Then he slowly raises his thermos cap, takes a sip. Steam rises from what I can only assume is tea.

I glance between him and it. My hand hurts. “No, I was just curious,” I say after a beat. Then, hastily, “Anyway, I should be getting back. My break’s up.”

“Okay.” Under the smile it’s like he’s looking straight through me.

Feeling thoroughly unnerved, I start heading for the door.

“I’ll see you around, Officer,” he says just as I reach it.

God, I fucking hope not. “Yes, sir,” I reply lamely. Then I open it and flee for my desk. It’s only as I get there that it suddenly occurs to me that he’s probably read my file. That he probably knows what happened to me.

And he caught me staring at those pictures.

I set down my coffee and turn to glance back at the briefing room, see that he’s still standing where I left him, studying the board.

Fucking fuck…

“Hey.”

I look over at Batista. “Yeah?” I say, hoping I sound normal.

“You ready to take Andress downstairs?” he says. “I’ve got a message in for his public defender.”

“I’m ready,” I affirm, grateful for the distraction from whatever just happened.

“When you come back up we’ll take another crack at the girlfriend.”

“Think she’ll break?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I’m gonna remain optimistic.”

Whatever weird effect Lundy had on me is fading. “Why?”

“Because I believe in the power of positive thinking.”

I glance over at Doakes, who’s sitting with LaGuerta behind his desk. Neither of them have acknowledged our conversation before this moment, but I see Doakes’ usual scowl deepen a couple degrees.

“Alright,” I say, not wanting to give him a chance to expand on his point, “I’m going now.”

“Have fun.”

I shoot him a sarcastic smile, start walking back toward the interrogation room. As I go I stop to grab a napkin from the break room and wipe off my hand. Already it feels cool, just a little red.

I find myself looking toward the briefing room again, at Lundy’s profile. Just for a moment. I wonder what he must’ve read about me, and about the Ice Truck Killer. What he must think.

I wonder if it matters.

Then I ball up the napkin, stick it in my pocket. Head back to interrogation.

 


	16. Can't Do It Again

__

_Can’t Do It Again  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

I don’t move for awhile after Lundy leaves me, just look down at my shoes.

I can’t believe I did that. I was handed the golden ticket to this huge-ass, career-making, federal investigation, and I gave it back.

Jesus christ I’m such a fuck up.

I look up and around the break room, try to see if there’s anything I can waste some time doing, but quickly abandon the thought. I feel shitty enough already without me jerking off with the last few hours I have with this case.

I’m so fucking disappointed in myself.

An anvil sinks through my stomach as I turn and head back to my desk. When I look over I see that Lundy’s already back in the briefing room. Outside of it, the hall’s still filled with people waiting to be seen.

I sit down, look at the picture of Tyler Faulkner his wife left me. The guy looks like the kind of asshole you wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley, but she loves him anyway. She sat across from me and seemed sure that I would help her, that I could give her the answer she’s been waiting on for the last three years. Her, and everyone else I’ve talked to today.

But I can’t. I can’t keep hearing their stories, can’t stand having to give them vague non-assurances and bullshit platitudes. And then the thought of having to sit in that briefing room with Lundy and everyone else as the IDs finally do start rolling in. That some sick fuck murdered and chopped up a bunch of fathers or mothers or varsity cheerleaders or university students that took the running path at 3AM or fucking crack whores that he knew no one would miss or look for— whoever it was he targeted. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see it. I can’t. It’s too fucking much.

I shift the photo aside, stick the toothbrush on top of it. Click through my computer to get to a new document. Let my hands rest over the keys.

Besides, I’m the last fucking person on the planet who should be on this case. I don’t know what Lundy was thinking.

Sighing, I start filling in the form.

Tyler Faulkner. Birth date and Social Security Number from my notepad. Born, raised, and disappeared from Hialeah. The last time his wife saw him, he was leaving for work at a car shop called Mike’s Mufflers N’ More. He never came home. When I asked why she thought he was dead and not just missing, she said it was because she knew he’d never just leave her. Through all the messed up shit in their lives, they were always there for each other. When I pressed for a reason she thought he might’ve been murdered, or, more specifically, why he might’ve ended up at the bottom of the ocean, she got more evasive. Told me she didn’t know. She just wanted to know if he was down there.

After finishing the report and sending it to the printer, I pause. Even though I’m sure it’s irrelevant, and that Tyler Faulkner is almost certainly not one of the people that was pulled out of the bay, I find myself scrolling over to the criminal database. After logging in, I throw in his name and Social, lean on my hand as I click through pages and land on his arrest record.

Hm.

She wasn’t exaggerating about him being in and out of jail, starting with a sealed juvenile record. It looks like he cumulatively spent over eighteen years in one detention center or another, largely for drug-related stuff, several assaults.

After hitting ‘Print,’ I minimize the screen, tab over to missing persons, search for and quickly find the original MP report Rachel Faulkner filed about three and a half years ago. It’s about as sparse as what I’ve already written down. It doesn’t look like the detective who took it updated it much since it was first taken, though who knows what’s in their notes. I print what’s there anyway, then swing my chair around and get up to head over to the printer.

As I walk I overhear the conversation going on at Batista’s desk.

“…stopped hearing from him.”

“When was the last time anyone saw your son?”

“Since he left work on that Sunday.” The printer’s spitting out a bunch of stuff that I didn’t send to it. “We don’t know if he ever even came home that night.”

“And when was the last time you spoke to him?”

I think they’re phone records. “I don’t really remember. That Thursday or Friday.”

“And how did he seem to you?”

“What do you mean?” I look over the printer at the woman sitting opposite Batista. She’s older, somewhere north of 60, with roots that need to be re-dyed and a long-sleeved, black shirt that looks way too warm for the climate. “I don’t know.” Her voice is strained. “He seemed normal. Happy. I told all this to the detective I talked to when he went missing.”

“I understand your frustration, ma’am, and I’ll be getting in contact with Detective Swickard for your original report, but right now I want to go through everything again, just in case you remember something new.”

“I just want to know what happened to him.” She glances at me, and I quickly look down at the machine again. When I do I find that my shit is finally printing. “It’s been two months and I haven’t heard anything from you people. I’ve taken over all his payments in case he comes home. But what if he’s been down there this whole time? What if he’s…” She stops.

The last page lands on top of the stack, and the printer goes quiet. Gratefully, I start thumbing through it to find my stuff.

“I just want to know what happened to him, one way or the other.”

“We’ll do our best, Mrs. Hunt.” Batista sounds so calm and reassuring. “Even if I can’t end up helping you, I’ll make sure Detective Swickard gets in contact with you again.”

The sheets are warm in my hand as I lift them out. When I look up from the printer, I notice LaGuerta coming toward me. Guessing what she wants, I grab the rest of the papers and hold them out to her.

“These for you?” I ask, a few decibels below my normal speaking voice. In front of us, Batista and the woman are still talking.

“Probably,” the lieutenant replies, also hushed. She takes the stack and flips through it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Any luck with Chino?” I find myself asking. By tomorrow I’ll probably be back on that.

The thought depresses me.

She shrugs, glancing up at me. “Not yet, but we’re hoping these might tell us something. Good luck with your interviews, Morgan.” With that, she turns away.

“You too,” I say, not wanting to correct her.

As I walk back to my desk, I can still hear them talking.

“…never leave Oscar. He loves that dog more than anything.”

“Was the dog found in his apartment?”

“No. He leaves him with me most of the work week. Because I have a yard, you know?”

I tune out Batista’s reply as I reclaim my seat, then reach for a blank folder. As I put the pages in, I feel another wave of disappointment. Disgust. I keep hearing what I said to Lundy, keep seeing the way he looked at me. He gave me such a huge fucking opportunity— me, a public fuck up who’s been in Homicide less than four months —for some reason I can’t understand. And I told him to find someone else.

But I know as I hear Batista talking to that woman, as I paper clip the picture of Tyler Faulkner to the bottom of the folder, that it was the right decision. I can’t do this again. I can’t listen to it. I can’t stand the thought of having to see what he did to them, of having to call family members and explain it to them.

I pull an evidence bag from my desk, stick the toothbrush inside of it. On the label I write the file number that was automatically generated for Faulkner’s report along with my name. Then I shove the folder into the organizer thing on my desk, grab the toothbrush, and get up again.

I realize neither Masuka nor Dexter are in their station as I approach it. Not entirely disappointed, I start looking for where to leave the bag.

“Hey,” a voice interrupts me before I’ve had a chance to decide on anywhere. I turn to see Masuka standing there. My gaze is drawn instantly, unwillingly, into the hideous pattern of his shirt. “Looking for me?” he asks.

“I’ve got this toothbrush for you to process,” I say, looking up at him from the shirt.

“I’ve got something for you too,” he says, grinning. “Just say the magic words.”

I make a face at him, not really in the mood for his shit. “Just take the fucking bag, Masuka.”

He does, but his expression hasn’t wavered. “Where is this thing between us going, Morgan?”

“Hell, apparently,” I reply, already moving past him to make my escape.

“Well, yeah, but before then.”

“Oh, we’re definitely already there,” I say without stopping.

Thankfully, he doesn’t follow me as I head back to my desk. When I get there I look down at it, make sure there’s nothing lying there that shouldn’t be, end up straightening some of my crap, throwing some wayward pens back into their cup. And then I take a deep breath. Take a second to feel the ground under my feet, the way my heels are pressing down into the wedges, all that mindfulness bullshit.

But, as usual, I don’t find any sort of well of tranquility inside me. All there is is a deep, yawning anxiety.

So, letting the breath go, I move out into the hallway. The second I get there almost everyone standing behind the barrier looks over at me. Behind them, I can see Lundy and a clump of feds all gathered around a table.

I don’t give myself a chance to process. I just look at the person standing at the head of the line and open my mouth.

“I’ll see who’s next.”

 


	17. Decompressing

__

_Decompressing  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

Home. Finally.

I shut the door behind me, slap the chain in place, drop my purse and keys and the half-empty cup of iced coffee on the counter, lean down to unzip my boots. After throwing them into the bedroom, I exhale. Feel myself sweat. The apartment’s been buttoned up the whole day and somehow it’s stuffier in here than it is outside.

I pick up the coffee again, suck down some more of the mediocre black, whatever-it-was roast that the guy at the coffee shop said I should try, wander over to the AC unit. After pressing the power button and messing around with the settings, I lay my palms flat against the grate, wait for it to kick on. When it finally does I curl my fingers, close my eyes as the artificial breeze blows my hair back. For half a second I consider how nice it’d be if I opened the unit up and cleaned the filter, how surprised Dexter would be that I did something housework-y, but quickly abandon the thought. It sounds like more effort than it’s worth. Besides, I think I remember him saying he already did that a couple weeks ago or something.

I drain the last of the coffee. It’s completely unsatisfying.

Making a face, I go to the kitchen, throw the cup away, go over to the sink to wash my hands again. Then I open the fridge and the freezer, start looking for something to eat. Finding nothing except some pre-sliced cheese and a couple of hot dogs, I move on to the pantry, end up locating a lonely box of four-cheese Rice-a-Roni. And because at this point I just don’t give a shit anymore, I grab it and a pot off the dish rack.

I really should’ve gone out, or at least gone to the store. For whatever reason the idea of ordering take out, or, more specifically, of having to go all the way down to the gate to meet a delivery driver, seems somehow less appealing than this. So boxed rice it is.

As I start making it, my thoughts slide back to today. To Lundy and the Butcher investigation. I’m so drained that for the first time since this morning it doesn’t really bother me. Much.

Even though I told him to replace me, Lundy still called me in with the rest of the task force to have an end-of-day briefing. After an hour I walked away with the following: forensics is still collecting identifying information off the bodies and nothing’s even started processing yet— not from the corpses, nor the endless amount of stuff that the friends and relatives of missing persons brought in today. Nobody’s got anything useful out of the cold case files or the interviews yet either.

When it was done I wasted no time in leaving the briefing room and heading out. I felt like such a pile of shit, between having to see all those damn pictures on the board and having to stand there knowing I’m giving the case up.

I add water to the rice, check the box for more directions.

Batista, Ramos, and Masuka went out to celebrate being put on the task force, and I had to make up some excuse as to why I couldn’t join them. I haven’t told anyone that I asked to be taken off, that I had to because I can’t handle it. It’s too fucking pathetic. Obviously by tomorrow it’ll come out, one way or another, but all that mattered was that it wasn’t today.

Because even though most of the body parts they pulled out of the ocean belonged to men, even though they weren’t drained and frozen and wrapped in butcher paper and left in carefully-constructed piles around the city, even though he wasn’t the one who killed them, I still see him all over this. I still see myself, cut into clean, bloodless pieces. If I close my eyes I can see all the tools he had ready, can feel myself spread out on that table, gagged and wrapped in plastic, helpless to do anything but wait for him to carve into me. For him to butcher me like a fucking pig.

I stir the rice around, put the lid over the pot and turn down the heat, then punch 16 minutes into the timer on the microwave. After making sure it’s set, I head over to the closet and start stripping down, hanging some stuff up, throwing the rest on the floor to go in the wash. I pull some night clothes and a fresh pair of undies off the pile sitting on top of my suitcase, but before pulling them on I pause, change my mind, decide to take a quick shower instead. I grab the shit I threw on the floor, stick the PJs on top of it, shut the closet door.

It hits me as I walk to the bathroom that for the first time in a long time, probably for weeks, I’m not going to run tonight. I’m too tired. Or maybe just too numb. I’m not sure whether that’s progress or not.

I toss the dirty clothes in the hamper, set the stuff I’m gonna change into on the toilet, find a clip and put my hair up, turn the water on. I hop in before it’s had a chance to really get warm, puff out a breath at the cold. As it warms up I gratefully start scrubbing off the day and the sweat and the gas station, let it all wash down the drain. Then I just stand under the water for awhile. Close my eyes.

I wish I wasn’t alone here.

The thought seems to drift in with the steam. I open my eyes and stare up at the faucet, at an imperfection in the tile.

I haven’t been with anyone since what happened happened. I haven’t wanted to either. It’s all still so close. Mostly I can’t even let myself think about it. When I do, when there’s nothing else to hold onto, I can feel him there. The pressure of his fingertips. Tongue and lips and teeth. And somehow that tenderness that I fell in love with is as terrifying as anything else he did to me.

I was afraid he’d ripped it away from me, but lately I’ve started thinking about it again. Started _feeling_ it again. And sometimes it doesn’t scare the living shit out of me to let myself go there.

Like with that guy with the fucking tape…

Something beeps loudly in the other room. It takes a second for me to remember what it is.

Right. The fucking rice.

Cursing quietly, I kill the water, open the door. After quickly toweling myself down, I change into the shorts and shirt, jog back to the kitchen. Everything smells like rice and butter, better than it has any reason to.

I pull the pot off the stove, open the lid and stir it around. As I look down at it, I remember the hot dogs in the fridge, and without really making a decision I go to grab them, then cut them up into the rice. Stir in the seasoning packet. Return the pot to the heat. Turn back to grab a beer.

The second I stop to watch it cook, my thoughts slide back to gym guy. I can’t remember if he told me his name, or if I told him mine. Though after the way I sprinted out of there maybe it’d be better if we never saw each other again. Or if I moved out of the country.

I drink a whole lot of the beer, my guts swimming with embarrassment and all this weird, sudden heat.

And even though I half-enjoy it, it starts to fade just as quickly as it came. Because for some reason I suddenly remember standing across from Lundy in the break room, having to make up some bullshit reason why I want off the case. I know he knew I was full of it. And fuck but I’m still going to have to continue the interviews tomorrow.

Feeling newly and unpleasantly cold all over, and kind of robbed over the loss, I turn off the range. I consider getting a bowl and scraping my dinner into it, but I have no desire to produce anymore dishes than I already have, so instead I just grab a towel and a fork, pick up the pot and the beer, then walk over to the couch. Once I get there, I set the pot on top of the towel on the coffee table, then grab the remote off the seat next to me, flip on the TV.

I drain the rest of the beer as I channel surf, eventually land on an episode of _The X-Files._

Tomorrow’s gonna fucking suck. I wonder who Lundy’ll end up choosing for the task force. Probably Simms.

Feeling utterly deflated, I lift the lid off the pot and skewer a piece of hot dog, start schmearing it around in the rice.

I just wish it didn’t sting so much.

 


	18. Cope

__

_Cope  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

“I brought her toothbrush,” Angela Oduro says. “I… I’ve been afraid to touch it since she disappeared. I don’t know why. I dunno, is that stupid?”

My chest compresses painfully as the girl looks away from me, down at the ziplock bag she’s worrying with her fingers, her face contorted in grief.

“No,” I say. “I understand.”

“I just didn’t know what to do,” she says to her knees, to something behind me. “I haven’t moved anything. I don’t know what to do with it. And I keep thinking, you know, what if she does come back? What if she comes back and I’ve packed away all her stuff and it’s like in the garage or something with mildew damage? And what would I even replace it with, you know?” She sniffs, swipes at her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, looking at me again. “It’s just been hard.”

A bunch of old, ugly memories from patrol, and from long before then, bubble to the surface. I shove them down. “Do you have anyone you can talk to about this?” I ask.

She shrugs, and I lose her eyes again. “She was the only one I would’ve talked to. I’m not sure if that’s ironic or not.”

Even though it sure as shit hasn’t helped me, I swivel and open one of my desk drawers, pull out a couple business cards. I almost grab a couple pamphlets too, but decide not to, shut the drawer instead. “I have a few cards here,” I say, holding them out to her. She looks up from the toothbrush to stare at them, then at me. “Some numbers for a couple counselors. If you want to talk to someone about it.”

She reaches out and takes them from me, but doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the first one in the stack.

I pop open another drawer. “And here’s my card,” I say as I grab one. “If you want to talk to me.”

“Thanks,” she says kind of hollowly. But she takes it too, sticks it in front of the others.

For a long time we both just sit here. Around us, other voices filter in. Batista’s interviewing someone too. Doakes and LaGuerta are at the sergeant’s desk. Even with all the ambient noise, I can still make out his low rumble beneath it. Somewhere behind, Soderquist and Yale are going back and forth, probably about the hit and run they caught this morning.

“Do you think she could’ve been down there?” she asks quietly, suddenly. She’s looking at the toothbrush again.

“I don’t know,” I say automatically.

Her expression hardens as she meets my eyes again. “I’m not asking for your professional response. I want to know what you think. I mean, you’re working this case, aren’t you? You’ve seen the bodies they brought up?”

“Yes,” I answer after a beat, even though it’s not entirely true. I’ve only seen the pictures. I’ve kept as far away as possible from the temporary morgue that ate the parking lot.  
“So just tell me.” Her voice is quavering. “Please. Please, just tell me what you think.”

I feel a crack forming in the paper-thin veneer of professionalism I’ve managed to reconstruct over the past hour. My response slips out before I can swallow it. “No,” I say. “I mean, who knows if the dive crews will end up finding more bodies down there, but none of the people we’ve recovered match your description.”

I can almost hear it as something inside her shatters. The girl looks away, grief consuming her features. She’s squeezing the bag in her lap so hard her knuckles blanch.

I don’t know what to say.

“So it was all for nothing?” she asks, though it sounds like she’s talking to herself.

“No,” I say, reaching out to touch her hand. The moment I do her grip on the bag relaxes a little, and I find her gaze again. “Look, even if she isn’t down there, I’ll get in contact with the detective who took your original report.”

“I haven’t heard from him in months,” she says quietly. “I don’t think he knows anything more than what I told him that day I first talked to him.”

I hope that’s not true. “I’ll make sure he gets in contact with you,” I say, squeezing her hand lightly.

“Thanks,” she says without smiling. She shifts her grip on the bag, and I let go of her. “Is there any point to me leaving this then?”

I’m not sure how to say it gently, without invoking some hint of the D-word. “It might be good idea. To have a record of her DNA in the system at least.”

She nods, biting her lip. At least a few seconds pass before she finally lifts her hand, holds out the bag. “Take it then.”

I do. And in the process I see the loss tear something out of her. “We’ll do the best we can for you,” I say, not really knowing what that means.

“I don’t want it back,” she says, as if I hadn’t spoken.

I nod. “Okay.”

She looks away from the toothbrush, over at the snow globe sitting on my desk, or maybe my old family picture. “Do you have everything you need from me?”

“I do.” I pause. “I hope you’ll think about calling one of those numbers I gave you. Or mine.”

“I’ll think about it.” She’s still staring at what I’m pretty sure now is the picture.

I decide not to rush her. Behind her, Batista walks by with the couple he was interviewing. They’re thanking him for his effort. Doakes and LaGuerta get up and head into Pascal’s office, close the door.

She doesn’t speak until Batista’s halfway back to his desk, alone this time. “You were on the news,” she says, her gaze flicking to my card, then up to me. I feel something hot roll up my throat. “Right?” she continues. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I reply. For once it’s almost calm.

“Sorry,” she says. “I just… I was just curious.”

“It’s okay.” I force my expression into something that hopefully resembles reassurance.

Abruptly, she shoves back her chair, hops to her feet. I get up too. “Thanks for talking with me for so long,” she says. “Do you think you could let me know what happens? After you test her DNA, I mean. One way or the other.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Thanks.” She awkwardly sticks out her hand.

I take it and we shake. Her palm is sweaty. “Do you want me to walk you out?” I ask.

“No.” She shakes her head, dropping her hand. “Thanks.”

“Okay.” I smile as warmly as I can. “You’ll hear from me soon. And I’ll make sure Detective Martinez calls you too.”

“Thanks,” she says again. And then she walks away. As she heads to the stairs, I see her stick the cards in her purse. At least she didn’t throw them away.

Though, selfishly, horribly, some part of me hopes she doesn’t choose me as the person she wants to talk to. I’m too much of a fuck up to be able to help her.

“You alright?” I hear from behind me, and I turn to see Batista looking up at me from his desk.

“What?” I say as I process what he said. “Yeah, I’m fine.” And the strange thing is that it’s mostly true.

He flashes a smile. “Good.”

I do too, briefly, then glance down at my desk. At the toothbrush, photograph, and notes that Angela left me. At the empty mug of coffee that’s been sitting there since lunch. The idea coalesces as I voice it. “I’m gonna go down to the roach coach and get some decent coffee,” I say, looking back at Batista. “Want anything?”

He shakes his head. “I’m all good.”

“Okay.” Nodding to myself, I reach into my desk for my wallet, extract a couple bills, snap the drawer closed. As I walk into the hallway, I spot Lundy through the glass in the briefing room. He’s still alone in there, sitting behind the desk where I left him an hour ago. And as I look at him he seems to notice, glances up from the computer to meet my gaze. Immediately, with this weird, sudden surge of warmth, of something like gratitude, I smile at him. He returns it, then looks back at the monitor.

I want to walk in there, but I’m not sure what I’d say if I did, so I curb the impulse, start walking again. As I go, the seconds between now and our conversation seem to sift away like sand. And I can hear him like I’m still standing in that doorway.

“ _You survived. I don’t know how.”_

He thinks I’m strong. This big FBI profiler and professional fucking bloodhound for serial killers. The guy who voluntarily climbs into their heads, looks into their eyes and tries to find their souls. He chose me. Because I came out the other side. Because I… survived.

I hit the button for the elevator, slip my hands into my pockets, press my thumbs against my belt.

Somehow when he looks at me he doesn’t see a broken fucking wreck. Somehow he thinks I’ll be able to accept what happened to me.

The doors ding open, and I step inside, hit the button for ground level. Wait for them to close again.

And somehow I believe him.

I glance up at the floor indicator as the elevator starts going down. It takes less than twenty seconds for it to scroll down to ‘G,’ and by the end of a minute I’m halfway down the hall. As I walk I keep hearing what he said. Keep feeling the way he seemed to look right through me, like he saw something there that I don’t. Just for that second all the terror evaporated, and something like clarity trickled in to fill its space. And even though that second passed, not all of it came back. Suddenly I could breathe again.

I round the corner, spot the food truck and a bunch of suits sitting around it. And behind it, swallowing most of the parking lot between here and the morgue, sits the huge, refrigerated tent for the Butcher’s victims.

I realize as I look at it that I don’t want off this case anymore, that I don’t need to be. That maybe in some fucked up way it might actually help me— or, even if it doesn’t, at least I’ll be to help someone like Angela Oduro.

And even though Lundy’s just the latest in a long line of people telling me I need to face what happened to me, for some reason he’s the first one I’ve believed. And maybe it’s finally time to try.

“ _You have to stop running.”_


	19. Getting to Know You

__

_Getting to Know You  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

“Smells good.”

I glance up at Lundy as I’m shoving shit to the side of the desk. He’s removing our delivery from their plastic bags and setting them down in the space I’ve cleared.

“Yeah,” I reply, for some reason more interested in watching what he’s doing than in the food.

After putting down the pizza box, he sets down a pile of napkins next to it, then removes two and sets them on either of side of the desk, tops them with the forks I grabbed from the break area earlier. Beside them he sets a couple plates. He does this just as carefully and methodically as he seems to do everything else.

I set the keyboard on a bunch of papers, move the stapler next to it. As I do, Lundy settles into the chair across from me, grabs another one of the napkins and puts it over his lap. I move over something else that doesn’t really need to be moved before sitting down too. For a beat I just stare at everything he’s set on the desk. He ordered so much fucking food.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the Styrofoam container sitting far away from everything else.

“That’s the tiramisu,” he says as he opens his box and starts transferring a salad, then what looks like lasagna onto one of the plates I also grabbed from the break room.

“Right,” I say, remembering him asking earlier if I wanted dessert. And because I’m not really sure what else to say, I open the pizza box and grab a slice.

It’s been about an hour something since Lundy sent the Bay Harbor victims’ DNA off to the FBI lab. We were looking through the coroner reports when he asked me if I was hungry and if I knew of any places that deliver. And now here we are in the briefing room at 8PM on a Wednesday, practically the only two people left in the station, eating fucking Italian food surrounded by a shitload of grisly-ass pictures.

“How’s the pizza?” he asks between bites.

“Good,” I say. “Yours?”

“It’s wonderful.” He smiles. “Do you want any?”

“Sure.”

Nodding, he reaches for my plate, then fills it with a generous cut of his food. “Here you are,” he says as he places it back in front of me.

“Thanks.”

Smiling again, he goes back to eating, and for a second I watch him chew, glad but unsurprised that it’s with his mouth closed. Then I try some of the lasagna. It is good.

After eating a few bites of it, I open up a box to find a pile of green stuff that looks vaguely like kale. Even though it doesn’t really appeal to me, I spear some of it anyway, try it. It isn’t kale. It’s okay. Shrugging to myself, I dump a little on my plate next to the half-eaten pizza slice and the lasagna.

As we eat I can’t help but be pulled back to our conversation earlier today. So far I’ve stopped myself from mentioning it, but I can feel the impulse pushing at me. I’m not sure what I want to say, or if I even need to.

“You’re quiet,” Lundy says suddenly, breaking the silence, as if reading my thoughts.

I look up to find his eyes. Something just south of my stomach rolls over. “No, I…” I stop, not really wanting to steer the conversation away. “It’s just…”

He lowers his fork, gazing at me curiously.

“I was thinking about what you said,” I say after a pause. “About why you chose me for this task force.”

“And?” he asks.

I grope for something coherent. “I just wanted to thank you.” I stop again, not really sure if I should continue. I barely know Lundy, and he already knows more about me than I wish he did. It makes me a little sick that when he pulled my personnel file he probably also pulled everything from the ITK investigation— probably _saw_ everything. The pictures of the garage and the table Dexter cut me off of, of Fred Harvey lying dead in the trunk of his Cadillac, the meat freezer and him hanging dead inside it. My statements. Dexter’s. Whatever Doakes and LaGuerta wrote up.

I don’t know why after seeing all that he wants me here with him. I don’t know why the fuck he thinks I’m _strong_.

“For what?” he prompts.

I search his eyes. And for some reason I feel compelled to explain, “For pulling my head out of my ass. For making me stay.” Again, I pause, and my mouth dries as a question forms in my throat. “How much do you know about what happened?” I ask.

For the first time his expression shifts into something like discomfort, and immediately I know my guess was right. As he starts to answer, I raise my hand, cut him off. “Nevermind,” I say, swallowing a rush of shame. “It’s…” Trailing off, I look down and away, at my plate, at nothing in particular.

“Debra,” he says, stops. He doesn’t continue until I meet his eyes again. “Yes, I read the files on Brian Moser and the investigation, including those on what happened to you. And, yes, that was part of why I want you on my task force. You were forced to see something very few have, and I think you’ll be able to understand what happened to these people,” he gestures around the room, at the rows and rows of empty boards, “and why in ways no one else will be able to.

“But that wasn’t all of it. You did good, solid work on that investigation. You’ve done great work since coming back from your leave. Everything in your personnel file tells me that you’re the kind of officer I want on this case. And if your hunch tonight is correct, you may already be steering this investigation onto the right track.”

I stare at him, unable to think of a reply. The shame keeps rising against his praise, eats over it, boils it away. I don’t know how he could have seen all that and not think I’m a fucking moron.

“I don’t want you to think that I just see you as a victim,” he says.

“I…” I stop him before he can go on, even though I still don’t know what to say. “Thanks,” is what I come up with.

He nods, and I look down at my plate again. I’m not really hungry anymore, but I pick up the pizza slice. Almost eat it. Don’t. “You were right when you said I’ve been running,” I say to it, for some reason. “And you’re right that it’s time for me to stop.” I snort humorlessly. “It’s not like I can fucking get away from it anyway.”

I take a bite of the pizza. I don’t really taste it, but I eat the rest of it. Lundy seems to take it as his cue to stop talking and go back to his food.

But I don’t like the silence, or that the conversation is ending there. Especially because now I’m thinking about _it_ again. About him. About what happened. Plastic wrap and duct tape. The sound of the ocean lapping against the life raft. Being rolled onto Fred Harvey’s corpse, hauled out of the trunk and blindfolded, forced into the garage.

The taste of menthol on his breath…

I crush it down. Way the fuck down. Because it’s 8PM on a Wednesday and we’re eating dinner. Because I can’t let Lundy see how bad it really is.

I clear my throat. “So you know everything about me, Agent Lundy,” I say, and he looks up at me, fork hovering in the air. “Tell me about you.”

“What do you want to know?” he asks, then eats the lettuce he has speared.

“I don’t know.” Already I feel calmer, with him talking. “Give me the cliffnotes. Where’re you from? How long’ve you been with the FBI?”

He studies me for a moment, then sets down his fork. “I was born in Eastchester, New York. I joined the Bureau in 1974 and transferred to the Behavioral Sciences Unit in 1981. I’ve been there ever since.”

“I notice you didn’t say you grew up in Eastchester,” I say, reaching for my Diet Coke.

He smiles, but it’s guarded. “My parents had what you might euphemistically call a rocky relationship.”

“Divorced?” I guess after draining it

“No.” He shakes his head. “Catholic.”

I nod, set the can down. “So they stayed together, but you moved around a lot?”

“Yes. We spent a few years in Brooklyn, then upstate. Eventually we ended up in Pennsylvania.” He cuts into his lasagna.

I watch him as he eats. He’s making me interrogate him, and I don’t know if his evasiveness is interesting or just irritating. “Then what?” I ask. “You finally settle there?”

“My parents did. I went to college in Michigan. Got a degree in English and sociology.” Another bite of lasagna.

“Me too,” I say. “Well, criminology and sociology.” I grab more pizza. “You join the FBI after college?”

“No. I served four years in the Air Force. That’s where the FBI recruited me.”

“What—” My follow-up question is cut off by a phone ringing. I automatically pat my pockets as Lundy reaches into his suit and pulls out his cell. It’s the one going off.

“Hold that thought,” he says, looking at the screen. His brows furrow, and he flips it open. “This is Lundy,” he answers.

Within moments his whole demeanor changes, and when he looks at me I know something’s happened. Something that makes my heart pick up.

“Yes.” He pauses. “Yes.”

‘ _What?’_ I want to mouth, but don’t. There’s a growing excitement in his posture.

“How many of them?” he asks after at least half a minute of silence. Beat. “And you’ve already sent this to the lab here?” Another beat, shorter this time. “Thank you… No. I’ll look for that now.” Pause. “Yes. Thank you. Good night, Dr. Kaur.” He snaps the phone closed.

“What?” I ask before he can say anything.

There’s something hungry about the smile that’s pulling at his face. “I’m glad you opted to stay with my team.”

“Why?” My heart is beating wildly now. “Was that the FBI lab?”

“Yes.” He pulls the napkin off his lap and sticks it on the desk as he stands up. “We’ve got twelve possible hits.”

“Holy shit. Twelve?” I follow him to his desk, something like a volt shooting through my core. “Off CODIS?” I ask.

“Yes.” He sits in his chair, jiggles the mouse to wake up his computer. My breath is frozen in my chest as he logs into his email and we wait for it to load. It seems to take at least 38 years.

And then they start flowing in, one after another: bolded and filled with long, incomprehensible strings of numbers.

… _ **in response to your query…**_

… _ **in response to your query…**_

… _ **in response to your query…**_

… _ **in response to your query…**_

… _ **in response to your query…**_

… _ **request for additional samples…**_

… _ **in response to your query…**_

_**RE: Richmond Testimony** _

… _ **in response to your query…**_

… _ **in response to your query…**_

… _ **in response to your query…**_

I look between the emails and Lundy. He doesn’t click on any of them, just hits refresh again. After a beat another message appears in the chain.

_**Prelim results** _

He opens it. I lean over his shoulder to read it.

_Agent Lundy,_

  
_Below are the offender hits CODIS spit out, separated based on stringency. Have the Miami lab get in contact with us in the morning and we should be able to get confirmations by Friday end of day._  
_Looks promising!_

  
_Manpeet Kaur, Ph.D., F-ABC_  
_Federal DNA Database Unit  
_ _FBI Laboratory, Stafford, VA_

I look at the list of numbers that follow and how they’ve been delineated. Only four of them were low stringency. The rest of them were high and middle. And even though I don’t know a fuck of a lot about all this egghead shit, I at least know what all this means.

“Fuck me standing,” I murmur. “We just IDed over half of the Butcher victims.”

Lundy looks back at me. Any hint of the old, easy breezy guy I was talking to six minutes ago is gone. His excitement seems to have sheered twenty years of his life away in an instant. “That’s what it looks like,” he says.

“And these are fucking _offender_ hits?” I ask, even though I can see the word in the email.

“Uh huh.” Lundy looks back at the screen.

I find myself glancing up at the rows and rows of white boards, at all the pictures of dismembered body parts cut out of trash bags. Eighteen dead. Twelve IDs.

Lundy’s voice calls my attention back to the computer. “Some of these are referencing Miami Metro cases,” he says, gesturing at the columns that indicate that.

I catch his drift, and I grin as something hot and aggressive wraps around my heart. I haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, way too fucking long. “What do you say we find out who they are?” I ask.

His own smile is grim as he gets out of the chair and gestures down to it. “Let’s.”


	20. The Bay Harbor Butchered

__

_The Bay Harbor Butchered  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

Cristopher Orozco. Eli Sommer. Eric Smith. Shannon Reynolds. Chad Carpenter. Joseph Cepeda. Renzo Sandoval. Jeff Linder. Dylan Maddock. Carlos Gutierrez. Rick Jensen. Anthony Rodrigo.

I stare at the names on the boards. I’ve been reading them over and over, repeating them to myself since Lundy and I first looked up the initial results from the FBI lab on Wednesday. Now it’s Friday. Two hours ago we added another name, Shannon Reynolds. One of only two women that were pulled out of the water. She plead guilty to manslaughter in 1981 up in Savannah, Georgia, and was last heard from in January of ‘03, here in Miami.

I stare at the names.

Murderers or rapists, all. With six left to be IDed.

Batista was the first one to say ‘vigilante.’ And even though I agreed, I kept my own word to myself:

_Executioner._

I put Reynolds’ folder back onto the desk. There’s paper fucking everywhere now: rap sheets, files on old open investigations, photographs, blood work, everything else that’s either been pulled or produced since we got the DNA hits. All of Homicide was called in yesterday for a meeting over the prelim results. More than half of the current IDs came from cases that came through this station, were people whose cheeks were almost certainly swabbed by the very same hands that just pulled samples out of their corpses. Even Matthews was brought downstairs.

And I don’t know what to feel, as the lurid details keep piling up all around us. I don’t know what to think.

Except that I need a fucking break.

Exhaling, I walk out of the briefing room and head to my desk. I get there just as Dexter is stepping out of his own cave.

“Where are you going?” I ask as he starts moving in my direction.

“Lunch,” he replies. He stops next to my desk.

“Great minds,” I say.

“Well, it is around that time,” is his response. Utterly deadpan.

I give him a look, then open a drawer and pull out my purse. “Want to get something together? With you over at Rita’s and me on this case I’ve barely seen you in days.”

“Alright.”

“Please, try to contain your enthusiasm.” I slap the drawer closed.

“I am.” Without a trace of irony.

Rolling my eyes, I start walking to the elevator.

“Oh,” he says, following me. “Speaking of Rita, I won’t be back tonight either.” He pauses as I hit the elevator button. “You’ve been okay on your own, right?”

I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. And it’s mostly true.

You know, _mostly._

“Got big plans tomorrow?” I ask, not really wanting to let myself dwell on last night. Or what that probably means about tonight.

It’s his turn to shrug. “Just a lazy Saturday. Though Rita and I were talking about taking the kids bowling.”

I narrow my eyes very slightly as a grin spreads across my face, not quite sure if I’m envious or relieved about the fact that that’s not my weekend. “How fucking _domestic_ ,” I say.

He just looks at me. And then the doors ding open.

“What about you?” he asks as we walk in. “Got any plans?”

“I’ve got another shrink appointment tomorrow.” I hit ‘1.’ “Other than that I don’t know.”

“You could always go bowling with us.”

“Yeah, and then we could all get ice cream and paint each other’s nails,” I say sarcastically. Kind of regret it the second it leaves my mouth.

Thankfully my brother didn’t seem to catch my tone anyway. “We could,” he says. “Get ice cream, I mean. Not sure about the nails.”

Or maybe he’s just fucking with me. “Thanks,” I say, suspecting it’s the former. “But I’ll take a pass.”

“Okay.”

We don’t say anything else as we ride the elevator the rest of the way down, or as we get out and walk through the lobby back to the entrance. The second we step into the blinding afternoon light we both reach for our sunglasses.

“Know where you want to go?” I ask. Fuck, it’s hot.

“Somewhere with air conditioning,” he says.

“Yeah,” I agree. Think about it a little. “What about that Peruvian place? The one with those burgers?”

“Oh.” He doesn’t say anything for a beat. “Do they have air conditioning?”

“Of course they fucking have AC.” We start walking into the lot. It’s only as we’re moving between the aisles that I remember I parked my car around back this morning. “You want to drive?” I ask.

“Yeah, sure,” he says.

“Thanks.”

He nods. And then for some reason he stops in back of a minivan, reaches into his pocket and fishes out his keys.

I stare in confusion as he hits the beeper and I hear the thing unlock. “What the fuck?”

Dexter turns and looks over at me, already halfway to the driver side.

“Where the fuck’s your car?” I ask.

“Oh,” he says. And immediately I know he once again forgot to tell me something. “I got a new one.”

I stare between him and the car, mouth open, half waiting for a punch line that I suspect isn’t coming. “This?” I say. “The fucking mommy mover?” I take a step closer to him, lower my voice. “Are you and Rita getting married?”

His brows furrow slightly. “No. At least, we haven’t talked about it.”

“So what the hell?”

He shrugs. “I felt like a change, that’s all.”

I’m no closer to understanding. “So you just decided to trade in your Taurus for a minivan? On a whim?”

“Basically.”

“Rita didn’t strong arm you into this?”

“No. I didn’t even tell her before I got it.”

For several, protracted seconds I look at him and the car. And even though it still doesn’t make any fucking sense, the shock is already starting to wear off. This isn’t the first time my brother’s thrown something from so far off left field that it seemed to come from a different continent. “When did this happen?” I ask finally.

“Tuesday.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. And meanwhile the sun is starting to melt a hole in my back. “Just when I think you can’t surprise me anymore…” I mutter to myself. “Fine,” I say to him. “Whatever.” And then I walk to the passenger side, open the door.

He climbs inside as I’m belting myself in. The fabric’s burning my ass. “Hit the AC, Dex,” I say before he’s sat.

Nodding, he plops down, jams the keys into the engine and turns it over. I’m already reaching for the dials.

“So,” he says after I’ve cranked the thing all the way up and leaned back, grimacing at the blast of oven air. Everything smells like new car.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

I sneer at him. “Shut the fuck up.”

He sort of laughs as he puts the thing in reverse, backs out of the lot. I start investigating the interior.

Some twenty minutes later we’re setting our shit down in a middle table as a waiter comes by with two glasses and an old wine bottle of water. We had to park like five blocks away on top of a parking garage. I don’t know why I thought downtown would be a good idea today.

The waiter asks if we want anything else, and I say no. Dexter asks about their drinks, ends up getting a papaya juice. As he walks away to get it, I find myself wishing I could’ve asked him for a beer… or five…

“So how is the investigation going?” Dexter asks, cutting through the thought. His tone is conversational, overly casual, just like it usually is when he brings it up. I’m starting to wonder if he’s just jealous that his butt buddy and his sister ended up on the case instead of him. “Anything break since the meeting yesterday?”

I shake my head. “Not really. A few of the out-of-state hits got confirmed this morning, but otherwise we were just waiting for confirmations. They’re retesting the samples from the six who’re still Does, but I’m not holding my breath. I’m hoping we’ll have better luck with the partial matches we got off IAFIS.”

“And the ones who were confirmed this morning, were they the same as the others?”

“Yeah.” I lean back, remove my sunglasses from my shirt and set them on the table. For a second I look at one of the generic art pieces on the wall behind him. “It’s all so fucked up,” I say eventually.

“What is?”

“This case.” I pause. “These people. So far every one of them has been a murderer or a sex offender or both. And they all ended up chopped into fucking sashimi and tossed into the ocean. Batista and a few of the other guys are saying that the Butcher’s some kind of delusional vigilante. Like he’s got some kind of fucking hero complex.”

He reaches for his water. “What do you think of him?” he asks before drinking.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. But before I’ve come up with what I want to say, our waiter reappears with the papaya juice.

“You guys decide on anything?” he asks as he sets the glass down in front of my brother. Light bounces off the three studs in his right eyebrow.

“Not yet,” Dexter says. I shake my head.

“Okay.” He nods. “I’ll give you some time. Holler if you need me.”

“We will, thanks.”

I watch Dexter as he pulls the drink toward him and takes a long sip from his straw. “I remember one of these guys,” I say.

He lowers the glass but doesn’t put it down. “One of what guys?”

“One of the dead guys. One of the victims. I remembered him when Lundy and I pulled his jacket.” I pause. “Carlos Gutierrez.”

He takes another sip, looking at me blankly.

“You don’t?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Maybe if you told me more.”

“I think you’ll remember. He shot and killed that patrol officer, Kathy Levy, back when I first joined the force. I think I’d only been on the job like six or seven months when it happened.” I pick up my water. “I remember you called me that night out of the blue and invited me over.” I drink.

It was a rare show of concern from my brother. I was a little rattled when he called, said something glib and stupid about whether or not I was only hearing from him because of the shooting. After I got to his place, halfway through our first beer, he admitted that when Homicide had gotten the call he’d been afraid that it might’ve been me lying there dead on some dark, shit-encrusted street out in West Flagler.

It was one of the only times I can remember him ever expressing any fear over my career choice.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, I do remember that.”

I put down my glass. “I remembered he disappeared,” I say. “There was a big, fucking state-wide manhunt for him, but it was like he just evaporated into thin air. Only I guess he didn’t. The Butcher found him before we did, bled him out and sawed him into pieces.” I pause, remembering the pathology reports that’ve finally been streaming in now that the anthropologist is done. Swallow a ripple of nausea. “He died slowly, Dex,” I say. “A lot of them did. Most of them did.”

He’s looking at me intently now, his stupid papaya juice still hovering below his chin.

“They’re saying some of them were dismembered when they were still alive.” _Like Tucci. Like I would’ve been. Almost was._ “I know they were killers, but it’s still a fucked-up way to go.”

“Nobody deserves that,” he agrees.

“Some of these people, like Carlos Gutierrez, I might’ve thought they deserved it. I might’ve even believed it. But it’s different when I’m standing in the morgue and I’m looking at the reports and I can see what happened to them.” I exhale. “I hope we catch this fuck alive. The Bay Harbor Butcher.”

“I do too,” he says. And then he takes a really long drink of his papaya juice. Basically drains it.

“Anyway,” I slide over the menu that’s been sitting ignored under my elbow and open it, “we should probably order before we end up having to eat in the car.”

“Yeah,” he says, setting his glass down. “Especially because you’re not eating in my new car.”

I snort. “Yeah, whatever.”

He just gives me a look, then opens his own menu.

It’s a moment before I can really focus on the words. Before I can quite block out the image of Carlos Gutierrez bleeding out on a floor, screaming as a bone saw tears through his elbow. As somewhere Kathy Levy laid dead and dissected in a morgue drawer, waiting to be sent home in a flag-covered coffin.


	21. Plastic Wrap and Duct Tape

__

_Plastic Wrap and Duct Tape  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

Batista opens the briefing room door when we reach it and holds it for me. “Thanks,” I say automatically, and he nods, follows me inside.

Lundy looks up from his computer. As usual, he’s the only one who’s still here this late. The local agents he brought in for the investigation are already spending more and more of their time back at the field office, mostly working on other things. As far as I know, Matthews negotiated with the feds to keep the BHB case as much in Miami Metro’s hands as possible, with our department taking lead under Lundy’s command, so it’s not a surprise that there aren’t any other agents here.

That being said, the old guy’s almost always the last to leave.

“You’re back,” he says. “How’d it go?”

“She agreed to give us his DNA,” Batista says, waggling the paper bag he’s holding.

“Good.” He stands up as we walk over to his desk, takes the bag. “And with any luck we’ll have another name to put on our board.”

“Doubt she’ll see it that way,” I say.

“Yeah, probably not,” Batista agrees.

We just came from seeing Jill Donovan, the wife (or, potentially, the widow) of Mike Donovan, for whom IAFIS spit out a potential match when we re-ran his prints with a lower threshold for matching points of comparison. The reason his name caught our attention was because his prints were in the system as a suspected pedophile up in Kentucky, and because he’d been reported as missing last October— which matches our corpse’s TOD.

We didn’t tell the wife anything about the kind of people Mike’s body was found with, if it even is his body. She’ll find out eventually, especially since that might mean her husband will be tied to an unsolved homicide or two. Or, fucking who knows, maybe twenty.

“Well, there’s nothing more we can do here tonight,” Lundy says. “Good work today. Now I suggest you both get out of here and enjoy your weekend.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Batista says. He stretches his back. “Have a good weekend, Agent Lundy. Deb.”

“You too,” I say.

Lundy nods at him, and the detective turns and heads out the door. He was telling me half the drive here all about his plans with his daughter tomorrow, so I’m not surprised by how fast he’s going.

But I don’t move, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s because unlike him I’m not really looking forward to tomorrow, with my shrink appointment bright and early in the morning.

Fuck…

“Something else you wanted to discuss?” Lundy asks.

“Nothing on my end.” I shrug. “What about you? Anything new come in since we left?”

He nods, leaning back against the desk. “Masuka submitted a few of his trace reports. He’ll be coming in tomorrow to finish up more of them.”

“God I hope that’s going to cut into his plans,” I say, then remember Lundy has yet to really be exposed to the pervy little lab freak. He gives me a weird look. Hastily, I continue, “Anything interesting?”

“Nothing so far that might be identifying. But he thinks he knows how our killer restrained his victims.”

“Oh yeah?”

Another nod. “He found traces of plastic around their bodies and in their wounds. It looks like he stripped them and tied them down with plastic wrap before he killed them.”

My heart stops mid beat. “What?” I ask. “Plastic wrap?”

“Yes.”

I stare at him.

“Unfortunately there’s nothing unique about the plastic. He could’ve picked it up at any hardware store. Could’ve even ordered it off Amazon.”

_Plastic wrap._

And suddenly it feels like the air is compressing. “Did he find anything else?” I hear myself asking. I sound weirdly calm.

“Glue residue around their mouths. Possibly from—”

 _Duct tape,_ I finish with him.

Compressing to stone. It’s hot.

“Everything alright?”

I try to focus on his face, grab hard to the ground. “Yeah,” I say. “You mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead.” He reaches behind him, picks up a couple folders, holds them out to me.

I take them. And then without saying anything I open the first one, start trying to sift through the meaningless technical bullshit. Try to find something in fucking English.

“Anyway, I think I’m going to take my own advice,” Lundy says, barely pulling my attention up from the report. “I’m going to go back to the hotel, maybe take a dip in the pool before I go to bed.” Distantly I register his smile. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yeah,” I say, already forgetting what I’m agreeing to.

_Plastic wrap and duct tape._

“Have a nice weekend, Debra.”

The response is automatic, “You too, Agent Lundy.”

Still smiling, he heads for the door, bringing Mike Donovan’s toothbrush with him.

Before he’s even quite gone, I walk to the other desk, the one he doesn’t use. Sit. Put the folders down.

And even though I’m finally starting to pick words out of the report, everything’s fading to a white haze. As the words repeat in my head like there’s a needle stuck in some internal groove.

_He stripped them and tied them down with plastic wrap._

Traces of glue around the mouth.

_He stripped them and tied them down with plastic wrap._

Plastic found in the fatal chest wound.

_He stripped them and tied them down with plastic wrap._

I close my eyes. Exhale. Slowly. Feel it tug me away.

He knocked me out. And when I woke up I was lying on that table, nude and wrapped in plastic, still gagged with tape. He undressed me, took all my things and folded them neatly, stacked them in a Hefty bag. And then he left me there in the dark. To wait. For him to saw me apart.

( _but that doesn’t make sense that doesn’t make sense we know the Ice Truck Killer didn’t do this why would he have done this we know it wasn’t him we know_ )

I open my eyes, look at the pictures on the board. Body parts. Sawed into pieces and stuck into Hefty bags, weighted with rocks and thrown into the ocean.

_Plastic wrap and duct tape._

( _we know we know we know we_ )

I look at the report again. The one below it. Tear through them. Try to find something, anything. They all say the same shit. None of it makes sense.

Fragments of clear polyethylene found under the fingernails.

I feel the tape around my lips. I open my mouth, just to make sure I can.

Heat presses down.

( _we know we know we know we know we know_ )

For the first time in a long time I don’t fight the memory, or maybe I can’t. It swallows me whole. In a breath.

He kicked me in the knees and I fell hard on the mat. I couldn’t think, barely had any connection, everything melting down, every nerve screaming. He blindfolded me after he took me out of the trunk, dragged me into the garage. Let me loose to bounce off the walls.

( _I was so scared I was so scared jesus god I thought I knew I was going to die I knew I’d never leave that room I knew_ )

And his voice, light and conversational. He didn’t give a fuck about me.

Terror burns white hot. I let myself remember. Something I never understood.

(“ _I don’t usually work this way.”_ )

( _oh god oh jesus oh fuck_ )

( _“Call it an homage to a fellow traveler I greatly admire.”_ )

My breath is trapped in my throat. Comes out strangled.

( _“Call it an homage”_ )

The needle in my neck. Time tipped sideways. Fell away.

And I woke up on the table.

_Plastic wrap and duct tape._

( _“Why are you doing this?”_ )

( _“_ _I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”_ )

_He stripped them and tied them down with plastic wrap._

( _“Call it an homage”_ )

A surgical tray with knives and an electric saw. Pliers and shears to break me apart.

I can feel the plastic wrapped around me, pinning me down flat and helpless.

His voice in my ear, arms tightening around my throat.

( _“How did you not know who I was?”_ )

I open my eyes. Stare down at the folders. Somewhere far away a siren blares, then fades.

( _what the fuck does this mean what the fuck was he talking about_ )

( _“Call it an homage to a fellow traveler I greatly admire.”_ )

I remember Monique Santos hanging upside down in the rack, watching as he cut her throat open and her blood poured down her face. Plastic tubs filled with blood and neatly labeled. Sherry’s fingertips hanging suspended in the ice. Body parts drained and frozen, carefully wrapped in butcher paper. Always bloodless and clean and exact. He never made a mess. He never drugged them.

But he drugged me. Wrapped me up like a fucking chicken and left me tied down on that table, over a mat to catch the blood. My blood. Left me there.

Like Tucci.

( _why_ )

(“ _I don’t usually work this way.”_ )

I look up to stare at the pictures again, at the rows and rows of names. And suddenly I realize. Know it for certain.

They knew each other.

( _“Call it an homage”_ )

Somehow he knew the Butcher. Or at least knew of him. And he wanted to kill me the same way.

I stare at the body parts. At the saw marks in shredded skin and bone. Bloody and precise. No evidence of hesitation marks.

After he killed them he unwrapped them, then dismembered them and put them into bags— arms with arms, legs with legs, head with trunk. Took them out to the bay and threw them in the water.

And somehow Rudy was what? Fucking _inspired?_

_Why?_

( _what did he think it’d be fucking poetic killing a cop and dumping her with a bunch of murderers or would he have put me on display for him_ )

( _like some kind of sick fucking suggestion like he was telling him he knew what the Butcher was doing and maybe he should expand his horizons_ )

( _fuck a cop kill a stupid fucking cop what’s the fucking difference_ )

I bury my fingers into the bridge of my nose, suck in a breath.

( _jesus fucking christ_ )

Feel something hysterical push up my throat. Let it out in a bark of griefy fucking laughter.

( _and I never knew I never saw it I just walked onto that boat he lured me there to take me_ )

( _and I loved him I said yes_ )

( _I’m such a fucking moron_ )

( _and he fucking knew it too_ )

My chest spasms as I laugh, as I sob. As I feel his breath against my ear.

( _“Call it an homage”_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is the juncture where my fic finally hits up against what I think is probably the most significant plot hole in the series: how the hell Deb apparently never made a connection between the BHB’s MO and how she was set up on the ITK’s table. I had two options in dealing with it: pave over it and ignore it, or address it. I went with door two. The only problem with this is that it’s obvious to me that the canon never intended this. I’m not sure why this was never a plot point, because for me it changes a lot about s2 (and beyond it) and it was really interesting to block out— maybe because it would’ve (and does) significantly complicate Deb’s stuff this season, and they didn’t feel like devoting the screen time. Or maybe they really didn’t consider it. I don’t know.
> 
> But when it comes down to it, this is my fic, and this fic exists for Deb. It doesn’t make any sense at all to me that this wouldn’t have happened, so it’s happening. Canonical intention be fucked. They didn’t do enough with her this season anyway.


	22. Sticky Note

__

_Sticky Note  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

My heart is a hard staccato in my throat as I take a seat at my computer, wake it up, and log into it. As I wait for it to load to the desktop, I clamp my molars, grind them together. It seems to take forever. I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this.

It’s 10:06, Saturday morning. There’s no one else in the pen, or in most of the building. Even Lundy’s gone, and, for once, I’m grateful.

I all but bolted from Wheeler’s office, my nerves frayed to tatters. I knew she knew something was wrong, and that she knew I was hiding it from her, but I didn’t care. Maybe I will if she insists that we need another extension, or if a new recommendation lands on Pascal’s desk, but only if and then. The last thing I needed was to try to explain this to her, to try to explain any of it. I haven’t even told Dexter. Because I don’t know if I’m right about this. I don’t _want_ to be right about this.

Fuck I hope I’m not.

A cursor finally replaces the little hour glass. I double click our database, keep grinding my teeth as I wait for it to load.

I don’t want to have to bring this to Lundy. I don’t want to have to say the fucking words.

At long last it loads. And for a second I hesitate. I feel the blood retreat from my fingertips, the air go cold against my face.

I could just walk away from this. Go out, go home, go wherever and ignore it. Because he’s dead anyway, and it’s not going to make a crusted fuck’s bit of a difference. Except, maybe, to me.

I start typing, the case number still a muscle memory, hit search, and immediately a whole laundry list of shit appears. I sort through it. In less than a minute I’ve found what I’m looking for.

I stare at it. As everything tunnels down.

_BLOOD SAMPLE: DEBRA MORGAN / TYPE: BLD / COLLECTED: 2006-23-12 / STATUS: UNPROCESSED_

I remember after I left the hospital the doctor called and told me they hadn’t found any of the usual suspects in my blood. They didn’t know what he used on me. I declined further testing. By then it didn’t matter— I was fine, and he was dead.

But the other vial they took ended up here instead of the hospital’s lab. It’s still sitting in cold storage somewhere, either downstairs or across the street, untouched. I’m not surprised they never ran it. I never asked them to.

But now I am.

I grab a sticky-note pad and a pen, scribble down the evidence number. After double checking it I quickly ex out the window, so I don’t have to look at it anymore. My heart picks up again as I log out and get up, pull the paper off the pad. Hammers in my ears. I don’t bother trying to ignore it.

When I glance toward my brother and Masuka’s little corner of the department, I find it dark and empty. But I know he’s here. And I know where he is if he isn’t at his station.

A giddy sort of dread washes over me as I head into the hall for the back elevator, where I just came from. I hope to god and the baby fucking jesus that Lundy isn’t there too. That no one else is there.

I push through the double doors, turn left.

I didn’t sleep last night. I was too afraid to let myself. I was too afraid to even turn my back on the windows. I almost called Dexter to come back from Rita’s, but the shame just barely outweighed my fear.

It was around 4 that I suddenly remembered her. Pulled my laptop out of the backpack in my closet and sat with it on the couch, dug through all my shit until I found her. Valerie Castillo. Even without the pictures I could see her, exactly as Doakes and I found her in that Airstream: laid out nude and clean on a brand-new plastic table cloth, her hair evenly framing her face, her neck slit open on either side. A single, long cut on her cheek.

I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection before, when I saw the coroner reports, when I saw the photographs of the heads of our vics. When I saw those same cuts on their cheeks. I don’t know why it wasn’t my first thought.

Because they’re exactly the same. All of them were cut on their right cheeks, and so was she. And even though she wasn’t dismembered, whoever killed her took his time to create a display of her body. He killed her somewhere else, scrubbed her spotless, cleaned up that half of the trailer, bought a fucking fold-out table and a red-checkered table cloth, and laid her out there to be found. It was weird enough that we got there thinking it could’ve been an ITK scene. It was weird enough that I was immediately convinced that it was some kind of copycat.

It wasn’t long before we found forensics to tie her death to her homicidal husband, and we ended up handing her case along with the greater investigation into Jorge Castillo over to the FBI. After that she fell off my radar. I haven’t really thought about her much since.

But now I can’t stop thinking about her. Because she had that cut on her cheek. Because she was as much a murderous fucking cunt as her husband— her husband who disappeared off the face of the planet, whom we assumed had fled back to Cuba. Because even though she wasn’t sawed into pieces, in every other way this feels like the Butcher.

What if Jorge didn’t kill her? What if we never found him because he was cut up, distributed between several garbage bags, and tossed into the ocean?

And what if the Butcher then laid Valerie out on that table? For someone to find?

And what if he hadn’t meant that someone to be the police?

I fight the urge to pace around the elevator after I get inside it. Just stab the ‘close’ button until the door finally shuts.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m fucking reaching. But I can’t stop hearing what Rudy said, as he stuck that needle in my neck, as the drug pulled me under. I used to wonder if I’d just imagined it, but now I’m certain I didn’t.

And maybe I was right all along about Valerie Castillo. It was an ITK copycat who murdered her and laid her out. She was the Butcher’s own little homage: a personalized greeting card addressed to a fellow serial killer.

Which would’ve made me what? A fucking Christmas present?

( _god fucking fuck_ )

I’m halfway down the hall. The little slip of paper is tight in my grip as I head for the exit, already looking out the windows at the temporary morgue beyond the food truck. I jam it in my pocket.

Tox hasn’t been run on the Bay Harbor victims yet. I don’t know why. Maybe because Masuka and his gaggle of geeks have been too busy processing DNA samples from all the people who have come in looking for loved ones. That’s probably why trace is only just now getting looked at too. But I have to know, have to make sure they look for it. I have to know if they’re going to find M-99 in their blood.

I have to know if they’re going to find it in mine.

I put on my sunglasses as I walk out into the sun and the heat. The air feels like oven-baked jello. I’m sweating before I’ve even gotten past the food truck.

All I can hear is his voice. Still can’t stop going over it.

( _“Call it an homage”_ )

I want to get it out of my head so badly that when I get to the morgue I forget to hesitate before pushing open the double doors and stepping inside. But then I do, as the cold air settles around me, as the doors shut behind me. And suddenly I can’t hear him anymore.

Because through the plastic slats I can see them all, laid out on rows and rows and rows of gurneys. And the whole morgue smells like something worse than the ocean, like kelp beds rotting on the beach. It takes my breath away.

“Hey, Morgan,” Hartman says. The uniform is sitting on a stool in front of the plastic slats, a water bottle on his knee, angled so he can see both the morgue and the entrance.

“Hey,” I reply, looking at him instead of all the body bags. “Pulled the shit shift?”

He shrugs. “At least I’m indoors.”

“True.” I’m barely paying attention to what I’m saying. “Is Masuka here?”

He nods, then points right, toward a part of the tent I can’t see. “Yeah. Over there.”

“Thanks.” I touch the little slip of paper in my pocket. “See you later, Hartman.”

He nods again. “See ya.”

Steeling myself, I step forward, push through the slats. The smell gets stronger, crawls up my sinuses. For a second I stare at the gurneys again, see the corpses through white plastic, but then I turn, spot Masuka sitting at a desk with his face glued to a scope, earbuds in his ears. It’s a beat before I can get my feet to unstick from the floor, to force myself to walk by the bodies.

The lab tech doesn’t notice me as I approach. He’s humming something to himself, his foot tapping lightly against his chair.

“Masuka?” I say. He doesn’t respond. “Masuka,” I say again. Still nothing.

Annoyance begins to mix with the fear swirling around my guts. I reach over and pull one of the earbuds out.

“Hey, what the fuck?” he yelps, pulling away from the scope. “Oh,” he says when he looks up at me, “it’s you.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Lundy pull you in today too?”

“No.” I’m still gripping the paper in my pocket.

“Then what’s up, Morgan? Come to see me or our chilly friends here?”

“You, actually.” I find myself glancing around, just to make sure we’re alone. We are. “I need a favor.”

He wiggles his brows. “Oh, yeah? Come for a little morning hooky in the field morgue?”

The fear has already overwhelmed the annoyance, is starting to rise up my chest. “Vince,” I say, “just… cut the shit. Please?”

He finally seems to sense my mood. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “What do you need?”

I glance around again, then step closer, finally remove the paper from my pocket. “I need you to pull this and run it for me,” I say quietly, so Hartman can’t hear, holding it out to him.

He looks at me curiously, then takes the sticky note, looks at it briefly. “This is an evidence number,” he says.

“Yeah, I know.” I pause. “It’s blood.”

“Blood?” he repeats. “And you’re not going to Dex with this?”

“No. I’m going to you.”

He’s silent for a second as he glances down at the paper, then back up at me. “Which case?”

“Mine.” The fear is lapping at my tongue. “It’s my blood, from that night. After the Ice Truck Killer took me.”

He looks at me. For a long moment he says nothing, and I can see his usual lightness drain out of his face. “Why?” he asks finally. “What’re you looking for?”

“M-99.”

There’s another pause. “That’s the drug I found in that vic back in November,” he says. “That chick in the trailer.”

“Valerie Castillo,” I supply, not sure if I’m glad he remembers or not.

“Why?”

“It’s just this feeling I have,” I say, not wanting to try to explain. “Would you please do it for me?”

“I thought we closed that case.”

“I thought we did too.”

More silence. After a couple seconds he gets up, leaves one hand resting on the desk, the paper pressed flat under his palm. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What’s this about?”

It suddenly sounds insane as I think it, as I start to say it, “I think the Bay Harbor Butcher killed Valerie Castillo.”

He looks a little stunned. Out of everything he seemed to have been expecting me to say, that wasn’t one of them. “What?”

“Don’t you remember how fucking weird that scene was? And that cut on her cheek?”

“Yeah…” He’s staring at me like I’ve started sprouting extra appendages. “But even saying she was killed by the Butcher, what does that have to do with you?”

( _“I don’t usually work this way.”_ )

“Because he said something that didn’t make any sense.” ( _“Call it an homage”_ ) “But now I think I understand.”

“Who? The Ice Truck Killer?”

Hearing him say the moniker scares me almost as much as his voice in my head. “Yeah.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but I stop him before he can find the words. “Would you please just run it for me?”

“I don’t…” He stops. “Deb, look, I know you’re having—”

“Please,” I cut him off. “Vince, just do this for me.” I’ve been reduced to pleading. “Please?”

Once again he falls silent. And for some reason I find myself thinking that we’ve probably never had a conversation this long before. “Alright,” he says finally. “I’ll do it. But I have to get the rest of this shit finished for Lundy first.”

All this pressure seems to blow out of me, violently and all at once. “Thank you,” I say, feeling almost shaky. “I really appreciate it. You have no idea.”

“It’s okay. I’m happy to have you owe me a favor.” He smiles weakly, but it fades in a moment.

I can’t bring myself to acknowledge the joke. “Look,” I say after an awkward pause, “I know this sounds fucking crazy and, who knows, maybe it is. Maybe I am. But I’d rather know, one way or the other.”

“I understand.”

I exhale, relieved to have gotten it out. “And don’t fucking tell anyone about this, okay? Just… let me know what you find.”

He nods. “Yeah. This is just between us.”

“Thanks,” I say again. “And if you do find anything, you might want to test these people for it too.” I gesture around the morgue. “If any of them even have any fucking blood left.”

“I will. If I find anything.”

Nodding, I start to turn around. “Thanks,” I say for the third time, not sure what else to say. “I’ve gotta go now.”

“Deb,” he stops me. I look back at him. “Are you okay?”

I snort, shrug somewhat helplessly. “I have no fucking idea.”

Without waiting for a reply, I walk away. I have to get the fuck away from this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is part two to where my approach to the BHB investigation is definitely veering from canonical intention, and, again, the reason for this is because for me it just didn’t make any sense that no one remembered the Castillo case after seeing the BHB victims— especially Deb, who was obsessed with the copycat idea. My intention with this fic, as it was with s1, is to expand on canon, not necessarily to alter it, but here it was just unavoidable. This was a big plot hole. Maybe not as Argentina-sized as Deb apparently not recognizing the BHB’s MO as the same way she was almost murdered, but big.
> 
> All that said though, I do want to say that in the end my intention is still only to expand canon. This isn’t about changing plotlines in the show or rewriting the season. This is meant to be canonical. Unfortunately (or fortunately, for Deb’s sanity anyway) and inevitably, this investigative avenue has to dead end. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t extremely interesting to me to explore.
> 
> And while I’m talking about canonical tweaks, for the sake of nitpicking detail, there are a lot of levels where the investigation of this case didn’t really make sense. Most of this has to do with the fact that the actual mechanics of the forensic work and the IDs and all the sort of “cop stuff” was either tacit or left up to vague inference from what’s written on the white boards in the briefing room. The more I dug the more I realized I needed to take some license with what little we did know, because there was just a lot of inconsistency and a lot of “Wait, what?” My hope is you won’t notice where I’m smoothing the lines out (especially because they’re not particularly significant, and you’d have to dig to notice them anyway, which is probably why they exist to begin with), but since I’m doing it I just wanted to note it.


	23. Hell

__

_Hell  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

_Please, god._

I stare up into nothing, into the black. My throat is too raw to scream anymore. I can still taste the vomit on my tongue. And I can feel the weight of it settling over me, suffocating me. Something like grief. As I drive my heels into the side of the car again, grit my teeth against the pain in my ankles. As a bump sends the corpse rolling back into me.

_Please, god. I don_ _’t want to die._

_Please, god._

_I_ _’d do anything._

I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, how long it’s been since he dragged me up from the life raft and forced me inside. It feels like hours. I can hear whatever he’s playing on the radio through the seats. I can hear him singing along.

 _Please, god,_ I beg the empty air. I don’t know if anyone can fucking hear me, if there’s really anyone there to listen. But there’s nothing else I can do. I can’t get free. He pulled over to stick more tape over my mouth after I finally worked it off. To shut me up.

_Please, god. Please, god._

I don’t know when I started weeping. I know it doesn’t make a fuck’s bit of difference. This is what they felt. This is what they all felt before he hung them up like turkeys and murdered them, let their blood pour down into plastic tubs.

Another scream rips through my throat. I slam my feet into the side of the car again. Nothing happens. No one fucking hears me.

I wag my head against the floor.

_Please._

_I don_ _’t want to die._

Another bump. Fred Harvey’s corpse rolls onto my shoulder, pins my arm.

Fear rips through me.

 _‘Fuck!’_ I scream through the tape, trying to force him off. It. _‘Fuck!’_ I pull my legs up, push him away with my knees, try to drag myself deeper into the trunk. I’m already jammed against the wall. There’s no farther I can go. _‘God fucking fuck!’_ I bang against the side of the car again, so hard it jars my teeth. _‘You fucking piece of shit!’_

My throat aches. I close my eyes. I can’t see anything anyway.

And I can still hear him singing.

_Please. Please, god._

I wish I’d had the courage to jump into the water. At least I’d already be dead. At least he wouldn’t have me for whatever it is he wants to do to me. To wrap me down in plastic. It would’ve been over by now.

I was just so afraid…

( _I_ _’m so afraid_ )

_Just let it be quick._

I can see Monique Santos hanging in the rack. She knew what was going to happen to her. And I stood by for their autopsies, read the reports, saw the freezer and the buckets and the tray of surgical instruments. Her head in a wreath. I pulled Tucci off that table. I know what he’s going to do to me. And I know he’s going to do it slow. For as long as he can. For as long as I’ll last.

_Please, just let it be quick._

It’s going to hurt. He’s going to want me to know. He’s going to want me to beg him to stop. He’s going to cut me open and make me watch.

And I’m going to beg him. I’m going to die screaming.

_Please, no. Please, god._

( _I walked onto that boat I said yes I let him put that ring on my finger I wanted him to I_ )

I shout again, struggle to suck in a breath through my nose, curl up around the pain in my guts. I can barely breathe, can feel every beat of my heart. Every sensation is ramped up to a thousand, every nerve electrified by the knowledge that it’s all about to end.

( _I_ _’m such a fucking idiot and he knew it wanted me to know it I let him touch me I let him have me_ )

( _and he_ _’s going to murder me_ )

Grief and fear curdle in my stomach. Every part of me aches. I dig my fingernails into my legs. I wonder what he’s going to take from me first. I wonder how much it’s going to hurt.

Maybe I’ll pass out. Before the worst of it.

( _jesus_ )

I rub my face into the carpet. I can’t even wipe away my tears. I’m afraid I’ll dislodge a contact, won’t be able to put it back.

_Not that it matters._

( _so pathetic so fucking pathetic so fucking stupid_ )

For some reason I remember what Lundy said. About me being strong. Because I survived. But I know that I’m not. That he’ll never let me go. That my death is going to be long and excruciating.

The car slows to a stop, and Fred Harvey’s corpse rolls with it to the other end of the trunk. I assume it’s just another traffic stop as we sit and idle for awhile, as he keeps singing with the radio, to some song that’s too muffled to recognize. But then it ends, and I hear the engine turn off.

Fear crystallizes in my chest. As a door opens, slams. As I hear shoes crunching in the sudden, ringing silence.

My blood rises hot.

( _no_ )

He’s coming closer. I hear a pop, and light streams through the darkness. And then the lid rises all the way up.

And I see him looking down at me. Feel something inside me disintegrate.

( _no no no no_ )

My lungs are paralyzed.

“We’re here.”

( _no no no no no no no_ )

“It’s time to go, Deb.”

_No!_

He starts to reach for me. I shove myself back against the wall, nausea and terror raking up my throat, down my guts with iron nails.

He grabs me by the knees.

Terror hits like a bolt. Rage. I feel something violent shudder through me. Hear something guttural and unintelligible get muffled by the tape.

“Come on.”

He’s pulling me out. I kick at him, thrash like a fish on a hook. He tightens his grip, yanks me onto the body.

More sounds. Screaming. Cursing. I don’t know if they’re coming from me. My heart is crashing against my ribs. Limbs quaking violently. Nausea.

( _oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god_ )

My legs clear the end of the trunk. Before I can pull them back he grabs my arms, pulls me up writhing. I can feel Fred Harvey’s corpse under me. I don’t have enough leverage to hit him. I’m three inches from his face. He’s looking into my eyes. I can’t pull away. I can’t get my legs up high enough to kick him back. He pins my knees against the car as he adjusts his grip on my wrists, then jerks me forward, out of the trunk, lets me go. I fall out, slam to the ground hard, on my ribs, crush my hands. It knocks the breath out of me. Everything fades to static.

My lungs are aching as he wrenches my head back by the hair, drags me up to my knees, pulls something over my eyes. Ties it tight.

And everything goes black again. I can feel rocks digging into my legs.

Terror like murder. Like knives in my chest. Shards of glass.

( _oh god oh god oh jesus oh christ oh god oh god oh fuck oh god_ )

I’m sobbing through the tape. Screaming. I think. I don’t know.

( _oh jesus oh god oh please oh christ_ )

Hands under my elbows. He pulls me to my feet.

I collapse immediately. Like a fucking ragdoll. But this time he doesn’t let me fall. My legs have turned to water.

I think he says something. I don’t know what. Can barely hear it over the sound of my heart and whatever’s coming out of my mouth. Brushes off my knees.

Starts to pull me. I dig my heels down, jerk away. Feel them drag into the dirt as he moves me forward. He’s stronger than I am. Much stronger.

( _oh god oh jesus oh god oh fuck please_ )

He’s pulling me toward the garage. Toward the table and the plastic and the needle and the knife. I can’t get away.

He’s going to kill me.

_I_ _’m going to die._

My heart pounds. So hard the black strobes white.

( _please please please oh god oh jesus oh please god don_ _’t do this please don’t do this you don’t have to do this_ )

“Come on.”

He’s half dragging me forward. I’m forced to step just to keep from falling again. Every time I pull away he jerks me back twice as hard.

And then he stops, slams me against a wall, pins me there.

( _oh god oh christ oh fuck oh please please god_ )

Hear something like keys. A lock turn. A door opening.

_I_ _’m going to die._

( _this is it this is it this is it this is it this is it this is_ )

“Alright. Come on.”

He grabs me by the arm, throws me inside. I almost fall, barely stay upright. The floor compresses under my feet. The mat.

To catch my blood.

I hear the door close, the deadbolt turn again. Every sound seems to crash like cymbals in my ears.

But he’s let go of me. Adrenaline pounds through my legs, forces me forward at a run. I hit a wall.

( _oh god this is it this is the end I_ _’m going to die here he’s going to kill me_ )

( _oh god oh jesus oh fuck oh christ_ )

I keep running. Until I hit another wall.

( _oh god oh god what the fuck am I doing what do I do what the fuck do I do_ )

( _I don_ _’t want to die_ )

I don’t remember where the door is. I don’t know where he is.

And then something collides with the back of my knees. Hard.

And I fall. Hard.

( _oh god oh jesus oh please oh god please please don_ _’t do this_ )

Blood is roaring in my ears. I’m going to vomit. I’m going to die.

_I_ _’m going to die._

( _I_ _’m going to die I’m going to die going to die going to die_ )

And his voice in my ear. He’s standing over me.

“Do you realize how ridiculous you look?”

I retch again, into the tape. Choke on a sob, on the puke.

“Just stop. It’s over.”

He turns me onto my back.

( _please oh please oh god oh please I don_ _’t want to die I don’t want to die_ )

( _why why are you doing this why are you doing this_ )

( _please god_ )

“I don’t usually work this way.”

I shudder as he touches me. Gag on phlegm and bile. As he pulls off my jacket. As he strips off my shirt. Unhooks my bra and tugs it off.

His hands move down my skin. Softly.

“Call it an homage to a fellow traveler I greatly admire.”

I feel my soul retreat inside me. As my body goes numb. Like ice. Like something dead.

Because I can’t stop him.

_Because I_ _’m going to die._

He moves down. Rolls up my pants. Unzips my boots and pulls them off. One by one.

Socks.

( _I_ _’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die_ )

( _please just make it quick just slit my throat please god please god don_ _’t make it hurt_ )

( _I_ _’m so afraid_ )

( _I_ _’m so afraid_ )

I want to kick him off. Want to scream. Want to do _something._ Anything.

But it’s like I’m already dead. Like he’s already killed me.

Maybe he has.

I don’t know anymore.

Hands unbuckling, loosening, popping buttons. Unzipping. Tugging.

My pants come off. Underwear.

Fingers on my stomach. Cold. Running down. Down.

( _no_ )

Suck in a breath. Another shudder.

( _don_ _’t_ )

Close my eyes.

And then it all stops. He stops. Nothing happens. I feel him get up, hear him walk away.

I knock my head back into the mat. Sob.

( _jesus fucking christ sweet jesus_ )

( _oh sweet jesus_ )

The silence settles. Like dust.

And my breath seems to rattle in my chest.

“Okay. Up you go.”

Hands under my knees, my shoulders. Dragging.

( _no_ )

Every nerve alights as I realize. He’s pulling me up.

To put me on the table.

( _no no no no)_

Everything is on fire. I whirl and kick and thrash.

( _NO NO NO NO NO_ )

He dumps me. I land on the table. Try to roll away.

( _oh please oh god oh jesus oh god please don_ _’t do this_ )

Holds me down.

I can’t see anything.

( _please please don_ _’t do this you don’t have to do this why are you doing this_ )

Plastic crinkles.

Wraps around my shoulders.

Pins me flat.

( _why are you doing this why are you doing this you don_ _’t have to do this_ )

( _you_ _’re dead you’re dead you’re dead I saw you’re dead_ )

Pulls my wrists apart. Wraps them down too. Around my chest. My hips. Legs. Ankles.

( _I saw you hanging there you_ _’re dead you killed yourself_ )

I roll my head against the table. Helplessly. I can’t breathe.

( _please please please god please_ )

( _make it clean make it quick_ )

( _you_ _’re dead you’re gone_ )

He closes his hand around my throat, steadies my jaw with his fingers. Forces me still.

( _please_ )

I feel my heart throb against his skin. As he wraps my forehead with plastic. Ties it down tight.

And then he lets go. I feel the blindfold tug a couple times, and he pulls it away.

I open my eyes. Am immediately blinded by the light. Close them again.

( _fuck fuck oh fuck_ )

“It’s hard to believe it’s almost come to fruition.”

Sun spots float behind my eyelids, explode like fireworks. I draw a shuddering breath.

“I mean, this is a lot of years in the making.”

I squeeze my eyes. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to watch.

“Open your eyes.”

( _it doesn_ _’t matter just kill me just do it just do it please don’t make me_ )

“Come on, Deb. Don’t be that way.”

And then I feel pressure on my lips. Abruptly, he rips the tape off.

I start to suck in a breath, but he clamps his hand over my mouth. Pinches my nose.

“Look at me.”

( _no don_ _’t make me just kill me what difference does it make you’ve won you’ve won it’s over_ )

“Deb.”

Rage flares. I open my eyes, strain against the plastic. Uselessly. Hear it crinkle. I can’t move an inch.

( _what do you want from me you sick fucking bastard what do you want what else is there_ )

He lets go of me, and I suck in a breath. He lays his hand on one of my breasts as he leans over me, inches from my face. I can’t look away.

“You really never saw through it?” he asks. “Not even for a second? You never suspected _anything_?”

The anger melts away, runs to water. “Just kill me,” I moan. My voice is hoarse, completely shot. “You’ve won. What more do you want from me?”

“I want to know.”

I want to turn away, but I can’t move my head. “No,” I say. “I didn’t know.” ( _I didn_ _’t know I didn’t know_ ) “I had no fucking idea.”

He stares down at me. His face is empty. I realize he doesn’t have a soul, that he never did. “And you really loved me?”

I sob again. And suddenly I can feel the ring on my finger. It’s the only thing he didn’t strip away. To humiliate me.

“You’re dead,” I weep. “You’re dead. You cowardly piece of shit.”

He doesn’t say anything.

And I realize he’s walking into the room. And he isn’t alone.

Their voices seem to echo, meld together. Like a foreign language filtered through tin cans. A door shuts. Footsteps.

They’re walking around the table, standing over me. Their faces dissolve in the blinding light, run like watercolors.

I don’t know what they’re saying. I don’t know that I’m not still blindfolded. Something about a journey.

And then I see the shine of a knife. Coming down. Slow.

Scream as he cuts open my cheek. Screw my eyes shut.

“Oh jesus christ,” I sob. “Please. Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

Clattering. A saw whirring to life.

It’s over.

And I hear myself screaming. From far, far away.

_“Please! Please god! Don’t kill me! I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!”_

“Deb.”

He’s standing over me. I can’t see his face in the light. But I see the saw.

“Deb,” he says.

_“Please! I don’t want to die!”_

I scream again as he brings it down. With my last breath. With everything I have left. As the blade rips into my throat. As he kills me.

“Hey! Wake up!”

I open my eyes.

( _please god please jesus oh christ_ )

My limbs are trapped. The air smells powerfully of sweat.

Everything hurts.

“Oh god,” I sob, struggling to get free. “Oh god. Oh jesus.”

“Deb, relax. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

I stop. Reality trickles through. The light is gone. They’re gone. I’m not on a table.

Couch. It’s dark.

Dexter’s squatting beside me.

I focus on his face. “Dex,” I say.

“You’re okay,” he says again.

I vocalize something as my stomach lurches, push up onto my elbow. Try to kick out of the sheets and the blanket that are twisted around me. My brother stands up, helps pull them away. I’m quaking as I finally manage to free myself, half sit up, touch my neck with shaking fingers. Heart banging against my chest like a drummer riding an eightball. Blood rushing away from my head. Something sour.

My stomach lurches again.

“Dex,” I say weakly, voicing it as I realize, “I’m fucking gonna puke.”

His reaction is immediate. I moan as I lean over the edge of the couch, as he quickly goes into the hall, opens a cabinet door.

Acid and saliva flow into my mouth. My vision swims.

“Here,” he says, squatting back beside me. I make eye contact with him for half a second before seizing in a spasm, vomiting into the towel he’s holding in front of my face.

He doesn’t say anything as he rubs my back, as I heave again. Vomit up fucking corn chunks and chicken.

( _fuck_ )

I convulse again, spit out a glob of something. The rest of the tamale. “Ugh.” I exhale, groan as I rub my face, force myself up straighter. My core ripples again, and again, but I know that it’s over.

Dexter lowers the towel, places it on the coffee table. “Here,” he says, handing me a clean one.

“Thanks,” I say quietly, rubbing my face, then my sweaty hairline. Another little tremor. I swallow.

“Want some water?”

I nod.

He gets up again, takes the towel I yakked into with him. I blink as he turns on the kitchen light, watch him grab a glass and run it under the tap. Shudder. My heart rate is finally starting to go down, but I can still feel it pulsing in my ear.

“Here you go,” he says when he comes back. Again he squats down next to me.

“Thanks.” I avoid his eyes as I take the glass, drink a couple sips. Swallow more bile.

“Did something happen today?” he asks eventually, after I’ve gotten through half of the water.

I don’t remember. All I can think about is the trunk and the table. Plastic wrap and duct tape. Fred Harvey’s corpse rolling beside me. “I don’t know,” I say. His hands on my skin.

I can feel his gaze. “Has it been this bad every night since I’ve been at Rita’s?”

“No.” I shake my head, and I know it’s true even though I can’t remember the last few nights either.

“It just seemed like you’ve been better lately.”

I find myself rubbing my cheek. Where he cut me. And suddenly I remember Valerie Castillo, my conversation with Masuka this morning.

“Yeah,” I say, relieved to find my skin unbroken. “I thought so too.”

Finally I make myself look at him, dropping my hand. He’s just wearing boxers, nothing else. His hair is sleep-tousled.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Around 4:15.”

A pang of shame. “I woke you up,” I say, not phrasing it as a question.

He nods.

“Sorry,” I say quietly. And suddenly I can’t stand to look at him. I bury my face in my hands.

He doesn’t say anything, but after a beat I hear him get up, feel him sit beside me. He pats my shoulder.

Something inside me seems to crack in half at the contact, and I feel all that terror thunder through me. I exhale hard, and, without deciding anything, turn to wrap my arms around him, squeeze him tight. Just to make sure he’s real, and that the rest of it wasn’t. That I’m not dead, or still bound to that table.

“Oh god,” I moan, choking on a breath. “Oh jesus.”

“It’s okay,” he says. For once he hugs me back, though not half as desperately. “Everything’s okay.”

“Fuck,” I whisper, starting to sob. “Fuck fuck _fuck._ ”

I suck in a breath. And another. Dexter doesn’t say anything, just keeps rubbing my back.

“I just want it to stop,” I say when I can speak again. “It’s like he’s fucking haunting me, Dex.”

“I know.” His breath puffs into my hair. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fucking fault.”

“I know. But I’m still sorry.”

I pull away slowly. “For what?”

He seems strangely sad as he looks at me. “For everything that happened.”

I shake my head. “You’re the one who fucking saved me.” I look down, let my hands slide down my lap. “Keep fucking saving me.”

For a bit neither of us say anything. I listen to my heart as it slows, until I can’t really hear it anymore, to the AC humming somewhere in the background.

“Is there anything else I can do?” he asks.

I glance at him. “Would you mind just… sitting here with me?”

“Sure.” He nods.

“Thanks,” I say, looking back at nothing. Hold my breath and let it out slowly.

And then we just sit. For a long time. Until I can fucking breathe again.


	24. Identify

__

_Identify  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

It’s 9:53, Monday morning. I’m sitting at my desk, sipping coffee, clicking through a report. I’ve been doing this for about five minutes.

Lundy started the day with a briefing, then divvying up the rest of the Does between us. Priority one is getting them IDed. The last round of DNA retests didn’t get us anything new, so we’re falling back to the patchy IAFIS hits and missing persons reports.

It didn’t escape my notice that Lundy assigned me the only remaining Jane Doe of the bunch— victim number four: a dead, brunette, white chick within my own age group who was cut into pieces and distributed into several bags, of which only the ones containing her trunk and upper extremities were recovered. I almost asked him if this was a part of some plan to force me to face my demons, but instead I just took the folder and left. Because it’s equally possible that he handed her to me because she had some of the fewest potential matches to sift through and he wanted to give the more complicated IDs to the detectives, and my head’s so far up my ass that I’m the only one drawing a connection between me and this body.

And, frankly, after this weekend I don’t know what’s more likely anymore.

I take another sip of coffee, set down the cup.

IAFIS spit out a bunch of partial hits. Lundy forwarded me Masuka’s email with the report, and I’ve just started running the numbers. My first match pulled up an angry-looking teenager originally printed for a B&E up in Fort Dodge, Iowa. Raccoon eyes, hair a fried, lime green.

I scroll down.

Reckless driving. Public intoxication. Disorderly conduct. Couple weeks in jail here and there. Last arrest in 2004. Not currently incarcerated. No open warrants. Not currently registered as a missing person.

But did you end up dead in the bottom of the ocean in Miami, and it’s just that nobody noticed?

Probably not, but who fucking knows.

I start database hopping. DMV lists her as owning a ‘98 silver Civic. Last known address in Fort Dodge, Iowa. Driving privilege status: valid. Last renewal in 2004, probably shortly after she was released.

Our vic’s TOD window is between 2003 and 2006.

Fucking great…

Wishing I could just run a credit check or something, I mouse over to IE, decide to try to my luck with Facebook. And…

Yahtzee.

Marcie Phelps, 27, Fort Dodge, Iowa. Wall filled with pictures of children and dogs and shares about Bush and Cheney. Last posted yesterday at 10:34PM referencing her latest Zodiac from _BRUTALLY HONEST ASTROLOGY._

I click through her photos, land on a profile shot of her staring moodily out a window. Her upper arms are visible. Halfway down her arm is a tattoo of two butterflies sitting on a rose.

I tab back to NCIC. Double check ‘Identifying Marks.’

Yep. Definitely her. Definitely not victim number four.

I drain the rest of the coffee, think about getting more. Ultimately end up reaching into my bottom drawer and fishing out a water bottle. For once it’s not just an empty one that I threw in there for some reason.

After opening it and taking a drink, I move on to contestant number two: Natalie Gray. Tap the mouse as I scroll.

I feel better today. I haven’t had a night as bad as Saturday’s in a month, so maybe that’s why it’s been such a mindfuck. I didn’t leave my brother’s apartment yesterday at all except to smoke, and even then I had to go to the street to do it. I couldn’t get anywhere near the water. I was terrified to sleep last night, ended up chasing a couple shots of bourbon with an Ambien. And even though I woke up feeling like ass, at least I didn’t dream.

But the memories are still over present. I didn’t feel safe until I got here. Until I started talking with Batista and Ramos and Doakes over Dex’s doughnuts. Until Lundy walked into the pen with a smile and his thermos and told us good morning. It’s a relief to hear the buzz all around me, even the sound of LaGuerta typing into her computer. It’s keeping me from spiraling.

Though, fuck me, I can’t stop thinking about whether or not Masuka’s ran my blood. I haven’t seen him yet.

NCIC finally returns my query. Natalie Gray. Currently incarcerated in Women's Huron Valley Correctional Facility, somewhere in Michigan, for I don’t care what.

Strike out.

I move on to the next number, then the next. To my right, Doakes gets up from his desk and sits down next to LaGuerta. Their conversation dribbles in in sound bytes. Doakes mentions an approaching court appointment. LaGuerta makes a comment about Chino.

My old partner told me earlier that they still haven’t found Chino, and that nobody they’ve talked to seems to know where he is. He vanished like a ghost. Off-handedly, I suggested that maybe the Butcher got him, and even though I was joking Doakes paused, told me anything’s possible.

I half listen to their conversation, somewhat curious if he might bring it up, but he doesn’t. I’m still searching for the same query as they both get up, walk toward the elevators. Still searching as I hear the doors open and close. Still searching as a couple other people walk by, back to their desks, out into the hallway, into the briefing room. As I drain the water bottle.

I’m close to giving up when another shadow falls across my desk, and I look up to see Dexter strolling by with his hands in his pockets.

“Hey, Dex?” I say, unable to stop myself.

“Yup?” he asks, stopping.

“Have you seen Masuka today?”

He shrugs. “I think he’s been in the field morgue all morning.”

“Okay.”

I start to look back at the screen, but Dexter interrupts me, “Need him for something?”

I regret saying anything. “It’s not like I’m pining for the pleasure of his company.”

He ignores my sarcasm. “I can tell him you wanted to see him.”

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’ll find him at some point.”

“Okay.” He nods. “See you later, sister.”

“Yeah. See you.”

And with that he keeps walking. I find myself staring blankly at my last, fruitless internet query.

I haven’t told Dexter about Valerie Castillo, or my theory about there being a connection between the ITK and the Butcher. About what I asked Masuka to do. I know how it sounds, how fucking crazy it’ll make me look if I’m wrong about this. It’s fucking crazy that Masuka’s the one I went to about it. I’d trust my brother with anything.

Except not this. Dex has been exposed to the worst of all this shit— all the freak outs and the nightmares, watching me jump at every shadow. He’d be the first to think I’m just finding Moser under yet another rock. But, besides that, I still remember our initial confrontation over the Castillo case. And even though at this point the water’s flowed way beyond the bridge and out to fucking Chattanooga by now, it’s still been enough to keep me from bringing it up. He didn’t believe in me then and he’d have far less reason to believe in me now. Fuck, after not sleeping on it, I don’t even know how much _I_ believe in me.

But I still have to know.

And fuck but this chick doesn’t exist on the internet.

I highlight her number from Masuka’s email, copy/paste it over to a new email, address it to Records. Don’t bother typing a message yet. I kind of doubt this chick from California, with her handful of misdemeanors, ended up the Butcher’s victim 3000 miles away, but I can’t rule it out yet.

Exhaling, I move on to the next hit. My thoughts swim between what I’m reading on NCIC and what I remember about the Castillo case, between the Butcher and the ITK. A couple yards away, Batista picks up his phone and dials, starts up a conversation with someone named Kathy. I wonder vaguely how his search is going. Eventually he stops talking to her, hangs up. I want to engage him about it, but don’t.

Scroll through yet another Facebook wall. Not the right Cindy Petersen.

Time drips by. I end up adding a few more numbers to the email, type in my request, leave it saved in Drafts. Gradually I stop thinking about Valerie Castillo. Working seems to file the edges off all that broken, fucked-up shit inside me more than anything else can.

After awhile I debate getting up to stretch my legs and maybe get some more coffee, decide to search the next query first. Within moments of NCIC puking out the record, I feel my interest pick up.

Jennifer Gruber. Her rap sheet is the longest I’ve seen yet, and, what’s more, she’s a Floridian. Fort Lauderdale.

I sit up a bit more. Start skimming for key words.

Domestic abuse. Child abuse. Controlled substances. Fentanyl. Dropped complaints by and against one Dustin Scholl.

Arrested in connection with the murders of Dustin Scholl and Jill Goslinga. Currently wanted.

Heart picking up, I dump her name and Social into a couple more databases.

Jennifer Gruber. Registered as a missing person, May 3rd, 2005, by the Fort Lauderdale PD. Wanted in connection with two homicides. Last seen at the FLPD station house.

I tab back over to NCIC, find the name for the OIC. Detective Cyrus Cooley. Of course no number.

I open up a drawer, start digging around to find our contact sheet for the local departments. End up finding an expired coupon for pizza and wine at some nearby artisanal Italian place I’ve never been to.

“Hey, Deb,” a hesitant voice calls my attention up as I bin it.

I look over to see Masuka standing on the other side of my desk. He’s got a stack of folders in his arms.

I instantly forget what I was doing, or why. Find myself getting to my feet.

“I just wanted to let you know I haven’t had a chance to run that test yet,” he starts before I can say anything, glancing around. His voice is hushed.

I feel a stab of something, a mix of disappointment and relief. “Soon though, right?” I ask, also quietly.

Another glance toward the right as he moves around my desk. “You’re sure you want me to do this?”

I resist the urge to check the room too, lay my knuckles down against a bunch of papers. “I’m really fucking sure.”

“Alright,” he says, not looking particularly happy about it. “It’ll probably be a couple more days. Lundy’s still got me running trace. Can’t exactly hide a blood sample in there.”

Another stab. “That’s okay,” I say, unsure if it is.

He nods, starts to move away.

“Thanks,” I add.

“Sure.” He flashes a polite smile that looks strange on his face, then walks back to his bubble. I watch him go for a couple seconds, trying to digest. A couple days, and then I’ll know.

One way or the other.

“How’s it going?”

I look over to see Batista watching me from his desk. With a twinge of paranoia, I wonder if he overheard us.

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “You?”

“I’m staying positive.” He smiles.

“So you’ve got jackshit?” I guess.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Uh huh.” I sink back into my chair.

Neither of us say anything else. I look back at my computer, at Jennifer Gruber’s mug shot. A sallow brunette: all tight, bony angles, skin pockmarked with acne or sores or something else. She looks older than 28. Or looked.

I wonder if I’ve already found her. Victim number four.

The report said she was decapitated while she was alive. She died in moments.

I wonder if she knew what was going to happen to her. If he ripped the tape off her mouth to hear her beg. Or if maybe she was so far gone she didn’t even fucking care.

Feeling weirdly empty, I go back to sifting through the drawer, eventually come up with the contact sheet.

I wonder if she did kill those two people, and why. If, somehow, she really did deserve it.

If anyone could deserve it.

Clearing my throat, I reach for my phone. Dial.

 


	25. Lemonade

__

_Lemonade  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No. Go ahead.”

Robby Scholl nods, reaches below the table and fishes around in his shorts, comes up with a lighter and a cigarette. I don’t say anything as he lights up and exhales, takes another puff. For awhile he just smokes, his attention directed out the window, at the kids playing outside. I let my gaze rove around the room, not really paying attention to anything in particular.

I’m sitting at Robby’s dining table in his little ranch-style house, a glass of iced lemonade sweating at my elbow. Despite the overhead fan and the chugging AC unit in a nearby window, it’s only barely tolerable in here.

It’s hot as hell outside. The heat seems to be slowing everything down to a crawl, including the two of us.

I ended up calling Dt. Cooley yesterday after I finished running all the names from the partial IAFIS matches to Jane Doe 4. He gave me Robby’s number. There were other people on that list who could’ve been my Doe, but of them all Jennifer Gruber was by far the most likely. Lundy agreed after I relayed her record and my conversation with Cooley, then okayed my field trip up here today.

The drive to Arcadia took three hours. I think it’s been at least a year since I’ve been this far out of Miami, and in a way it’s a relief. The heat aside.

I take a sip of lemonade, resist the urge to press the glass against my forehead.

The movement seems to snap Robby out of his reverie. He looks over at me, blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “So where do we start?”

I decide to leave it open. “Wherever you want.”

He props his elbow up on the table, and I find myself wishing I could smoke too. “I didn’t know Jenny very well. Honestly, I didn’t know my brother that well either. He got into a lot of bad stuff, dropped out of high school, followed his crackhead friends out to Miami to start up some ‘DJing career.’” He air quotes, drops his free palm onto his arm. “Whatever that even meant.” Pause. “Not that I’ve led some peach-perfect life, you know?”

“Yeah, I understand,” I say.

Another puff. “Anyway, I don’t know, I didn’t really make an effort to stay in contact with him. I only knew what my parents told me. Sometimes he would drag himself up for a holiday. Usually he wouldn’t. Sometimes he’d call and ask for money and Mom would send him a check. Every time he came up here she gave him money. And then one day he showed up with that girl, Jenny.”

“What did you think about her?”

“Honestly?” He shrugs, takes a pull on his cigarette. “I don’t know. That she was just some bimbo he decided to bring up for Thanksgiving. But then a couple months later or, I don’t know, maybe it was February or something, Mom calls and tells me they’re engaged. I didn’t believe it until I got the RSVP in the mail, and even then…” He trails off, squishes the nub of the butt into a nearby ash tray. “Our family paid for the wedding. Jenny didn’t really have any family, though I assume you know that.”

“Yeah.” I nod. That’s why I’m here. Jennifer was a foster kid, so there was a below zero chance of me getting DNA from her biological parents or any siblings. Robby Scholl is basically my only avenue to linking Jennifer concretely to my Butcher victim.

“I don’t know why Mom was so excited,” he continues. “They were both like 19. Barely even legal. I just stayed out of it. Dad wasn’t thrilled either, but I don’t know if he ever said anything. Even if he did, it didn’t matter.” He pauses, glances out the window again.

“Well, anyway, they got married,” he continues after a beat. “We all drove to the Keys, to some venue I can’t remember. The service was okay I guess. I mostly remember half of us getting toasted.” He looks at me, as if suddenly remembering I’m a cop.

I don’t say anything, just take another sip of lemonade. The ice numbs my teeth.

“Anyway, I didn’t see either of them again for awhile after that.” His leg starts jiggling. “I don’t remember how I found out she was pregnant. Probably Mom. It wasn’t very long after the wedding. She was pregnant before the wedding. That’s probably why they got married.

“I don’t know how long it was before I actually met any of the kids. Mostly I just saw pictures— you know, Mom put them up around the house. I think it wasn’t until after Tori was born. They all came up for Thanksgiving, probably to get money from my parents.”

“What were they doing for work?” I ask, unsure if that’s going to divert or intensify the incoming rant.

Another shrug. His leg stops jiggling. “He had some music ‘gigs.’” More air quotes. “Supposedly she worked at like a Steak ‘n Shake or an Applebee’s or something over there. But I knew they were into some bad stuff. I caught them snorting something in the car over Christmas while their kids were watching the friggin’ _Grinch_ inside. Probably coke or fentanyl or something. My parents were in denial about it, but Dustin was always like that. Always finding empty baggies in his room. And they both had that pasty junkie skin. But, you know, what the heck could I do? And honestly at that point I barely cared. I had my own problems, and I just left my brother to live his life. I barely listened when Mom gave her updates. Summer was probably at least one or two when I found out she was born. And then it was because of all the custody stuff.”

“What do you know about that?”

He drinks some of his lemonade. “Honestly, not very much. Not enough.” He drains the glass. “You want anymore?”

I glance at my own half-empty glass. “Sure,” I say automatically.

Nodding, he gets up and goes over to the fridge, pulls out the carton of Minute Maid. After coming back over and refilling both the glasses, he sets it on the table between us, plops back into his seat.

“Is any of this actually helpful?” he asks after he’s taken another drink, then poured himself more lemonade.

“Yeah,” I say, not really caring if that’s true. The reality is I don’t need to know any of this. I could’ve just taken a DNA swab from one of the kids and left, been on the road back to Miami already. But I want to know more than just what Cooley told me, even though Robby almost certainly won’t be able to give me anything that could lead us anywhere near the Butcher. I just want to understand.

“If you say so…” He trails off, pulls out another cigarette. Lights up. _Whoosh._ “Anyway, yeah, like I said, I don’t know very much about what happened.” He takes another puff. “In retrospect I wish I’d paid more attention. At the time I never knew about the arrests and the fact that there were always cops trooping in and out of their house. I knew they were junkies but I never knew how bad. And I didn’t know the shi— stuff they were into was fentanyl.” I’m surprised to see embarrassment flicker across his face at the almost curse, but he moves on quickly, tapping ash into the tray. “Mom mentioned some stuff about jail, but I tuned it out. She kept bailing them out, kept sending them money. It was like nothing he did was bad enough. And we were never exactly well off. Mom was reaching into her retirement fund without Dad knowing. I just… washed my hands of it.” Another, longer pull. I’m not sure if it’s anger or regret I’m seeing in his eyes. Maybe both.

“And then she got arrested for real. I think it was for distributing. My brother got custody. But instead of acting like a responsible parent, he was still doing drugs, sleeping around. Imagine? With three kids?”

Unfortunately, I don’t have to imagine.

He keeps going without my prompting. “At some point they divorced. I think she was still in jail at the time. And then less than a year later he married that new chick, Jill, and moved up to Fort Lauderdale. I never actually met her. I’m not even sure I knew what she looked like. And then, suddenly, I was getting a call from Mom at work, that they were dead. That they’d been shot.” After another pull, he squishes the cigarette into the ash tray.

“I’m sure you know more about what happened than I do,” he continues. “I only sort of know what happened. They were killed at their house while the kids were at school. They suspected Jenny, but she disappeared after they first talked to her. The police, I mean. But I guess that’s because she was dead too.”

“That’s what it looks like,” I say.

He’s not looking at me at all anymore. “Did she kill them? Do you know?”

“I don’t. I’m sorry.”

He nods. Doesn’t say anything else.

Some bullshit platitudes pop into my head. I swallow them before I can voice any of them, because I know how fucking useless they are.

“How did she die?” he asks eventually.

There’s no civil way to answer it. I take a stab at it anyway: “She bled to death.”

He looks at me. “But she was murdered? She was one of those bodies you guys pulled up from the ocean over there?”

“We think so.”

“Why?”

I hesitate, even though I knew the whole drive here he’d ask me this. End up giving him the obvious hedge, “At this stage in the investigation, I can’t really say.”

He studies me for a second. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, though he doesn’t seem particularly upset about it.

He makes a waving gesture, looks away again. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Truthfully, maybe it’s a terrible thing to say, but I didn’t feel that much when he died. We hadn’t had a relationship at that point in like ten years. He ignored me every time I reached out to him, and eventually I stopped. Maybe I could’ve tried harder, but if I’m honest I just… didn’t want to.”

“But you took his kids?” I say, then drink more lemonade.

“Yeah. Figured I could at least try to give them a decent life. The day I adopted them was the day I went sober. In a couple months it’ll be two years.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He nods. “At least they don’t remember much. And I’m glad I’ve got my parents to help.” He stops. “You’re not planning on contacting them either, right? This would kill Mom.”

“No.” I shake my head.

“Well, if something changes call me first. I’ll try to help you. I don’t want all this stuff getting dragged back up for my parents. They’ve only just started coping with what happened.”

“I understand.” And now I’m glad I decided to call the brother before the parents. “I’ll contact you if there’s anything else.”

“Thanks.”

I pause, thinking of something. “Do you want to know the results of the DNA test?”

There’s a long silence. Robby picks up his glass and stares into it, eventually takes a drink. “Yeah, I guess I do. Guess I need to, for the kids.” Sniffing slightly, he sets the glass down. “Anyway, I’ve taken enough of your time. What do you need for the DNA thing?”

Masuka’s face pops into my head. Even though I knew how to do this shit before, and it’s not very complicated anyway, he still felt the need to go over it when I went in this morning to grab the kit and check out a vehicle. “I need one of the kids,” I say. “It’s just a quick cheek swab.”

“Okay.” He nods. He starts to get up, then stops. “If you don’t mind, I don’t want them to know what this is for. If it does turn out to be her, I’ll have to figure out a way to tell them, but not yet. Not until we know for sure.”

“I understand,” I say, unsurprised. When I arrived he pointedly avoided telling the kids who I was before sending them outside so we could talk.

“Thanks,” he says. He takes another quick sip from his glass before rising, heading over to the door to the backyard.

Exhaling, I get up too, grab my blazer off the chair back and slip it back on, smooth it down to make sure it covers the piece sitting in the small of my back and the badge clipped to my pants. Then I pick up the case sitting on the floor, set it on the table, open it, straighten all the crap inside it.

By the time I’m done fussing with it and have started pulling on gloves, I hear the snap of the screen door hitting its frame, and I turn to see Robby coming back in with all three girls in tow. The eldest looks no older than 12, the youngest maybe 5 or 6. They’re all staring at me— the youngest curiously, the other two with suspicion.

“Girls, this is Detective Morgan,” he says, forgetting my title, or maybe just embellishing it. “Detective, this is Kailey, Tori, and Summer.” He points them out in turn.

“Hello,” I say, tugging the latex down over my wrists.

Kailey, the oldest one, is now openly glaring at me. “Is this about Mom?” she asks, glancing up at her uncle. Behind her, Tori’s eyes get wide.

Robby shifts uncomfortably. “Maybe,” he says after a beat.

“Maybe?” she repeats. She looks between me and the box.

I glance at Robby for some direction, because she’s clearly expecting me to elaborate. He makes a very slight, helpless sort of gesture. “Yes,” I say hesitantly. “This is about your mother.”

“Is she dead?” Her voice is flat, but her sisters retract sharply at the D-word.

“Kailey,” Robby says sharply.

She turns on him. “What? Why else would she be here?”

I watch as all his well-meaning intentions crumble— deconstructed by an angry, little girl. He folds his six-foot-something frame as he bends to address her. “We don’t know yet,” he says. “That’s why Detective Morgan is here.”

“Well, so what if she is?” She crosses her arms.

“Kailey, please.” He puts his hands on her shoulders. “Be respectful— for your sisters, and for the detective here.”

She glares at him sullenly but doesn’t say anything else, then turns to glare at the wall as he straightens and looks at me. “What do we need to do, Detective?”

The urge to correct him itches at me. “I just need to take a quick cheek swab from one of you,” I say instead, grabbing one of the tubes out of the box. “With this q-tip.” I waggle it. “It’ll only take a second.”

Kailey’s still glaring at the wall, but her gaze darts between that and me. I realize I like her, for whatever reason. Maybe because she’s so pissed off.

“I’ll do it.” Tori walks closer, though she seems nervous.

Summer follows. “I want to try too,” she says.

I guess it doesn’t matter. “Alright,” I say. I pop open the first cap on the q-tip and slide it down. Tori’s ahead so I look at her. “I just need you to open your mouth.”

She does. I take both swabs, then slide the caps back into place. “That’s it?” she asks.

“That’s it.” I label it, put it in its container, snap the gloves off, then throw them in the little waste pouch. Grab a second stick and another pair of gloves. “Your turn,” I say to the youngest. She seems kind of excited about it. Meanwhile Kailey is still glowering over by her uncle.

I definitely like her.

“Alright,” I say when I’ve got the second swab labeled and put in the case. “We’re good to go.”

“That’s it?” Kailey blurts suddenly. “That’s all you came here for? Just to take some DNA swabs?”

“Pretty much.” I throw the gloves away, snap the case closed.

“Don’t you have like pictures or something?”

I look over at her. Fear is leaking through her anger, and I feel a pang of pity. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I don’t.”

“Why not?”

Because she’s been sitting in a bag at the bottom of the ocean for two years, and because even the shittiest Polaroid couldn’t mask the decomp or the hack marks along the ragged line of her neck. I grasp for the nearest line of bullshit, even if it happens to be true, “Because we need to confirm her ID forensically, like through fingerprints or DNA, instead of visually.”

I can’t tell if she’s mollified by that answer or not, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“How did she die?” Tori asks in her stead.

Shit.

I think Robby caught my reaction. “We can talk about this later,” he says, thank god. “Right now I think Detective Morgan has to head back.”

“Yes.” I glance at my watch for no reason, don’t actually absorb the time. “Before it gets too much later.”

“Give us a minute,” he says to the kids. None of them move. “Go on.”

“Come on,” Kailey says. Her arms are still locked across her chest as she moves away from Robby. “Let’s go.” She shoots me one last glare before ripping open the door and stomping outside.

Tori looks up at me. “Nice to meet you,” she mumbles, then grabs her little sister by the hand and leads her to the door her other sister just disappeared through.

Neither of us move until it’s swung shut again.

Robby’s the first to speak, as he rubs his neck. “Sorry about that,” he says. “All this has been hardest on Kailey.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I understand.”

“She doesn’t really talk to me, or to anyone. I tried taking her to a therapist, but…” He drops his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s worse thinking that your mom abandoned you or that she’s dead.”

“I’m sorry it came out like this.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “There wasn’t a good way. I appreciate you being candid.” He stops, but I can see he wants to say more. After a beat, he does. “She had a good question though, Kailey. You don’t have pictures or any of her things? Not that I would be able to recognize any of them, but one of the kids might.”

I shake my head. “She… was down there a long time. If it really is her, we suspect she died pretty soon after she was last seen.”

“But what about her things?”

I hesitate, search for some mild phrasing. “She wasn’t found with any,” is what I come up with.

“Okay. I got’cha.” He looks a little disturbed.

“Anyway, I do need to go,” I say, because it’s really starting to feel that way. “I want to try to get these back and processing before the end of the day.” I grab the kit.

“Okay.” He nods, and we start walking through the dining area back to the front door. “When do you think you’ll know anything?”

“A week, at the latest. Could be as soon as Friday.” Or it should be, according to Lundy’s goal for the end of the week.

He rubs his face. “I don’t know if that feels soon or like forever.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know what you mean.”

We stop by the door.

“Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Detective,” he says as he opens it. “Wish it could’ve been under better circumstances.”

Again I fight the urge to correct him. Overcome it. “Likewise,” I say. “Thanks for your hospitality.”

“Thanks for maybe finally bringing us some closure. You know, for her kids, anyway.”

“You’re welcome.” I take a step forward. “You’ll hear from me soon.”

He nods. “Have a safe drive back.”

“Thanks.”

We exchange goodbyes, and then I step out the door and back into the heat. My car is parked on the curb, several yards down the driveway. I hear the door close as I walk toward it, fishing my keys out of an interior pocket of my blazer. When I get to it, the handle scalds my hand, and I curse at the stupid thing as I yank it open, curse again as I slide inside the oven. Ram the keys into the ignition, leave the door open wide as I turn on and blast the air, stick the kit on the passenger-side floor, lean back against the hot fabric. After a second I strip off my jacket and throw it on the seat.

Take a breath.

I don’t know what the fuck I just did to that family. Somehow I forgot coming up here that those were real kids Jennifer Gruber left behind, even if she was a murderous, drug-abusing sack of crap. Somehow I let myself think that all that really mattered was getting a name for the body, because all that really matters is getting a name for her killer. Somehow I forgot I was coming up here to tell three little girls their mother is probably dead, and has been for a long fucking time.

I’m such an asshole.

Exhaling, I slam the door closed, strap on my seat belt, put the car into drive. As I pull away from the curb I can still smell Robby Scholl’s cigarettes, like they penetrated my clothes. Cursing the department’s smoke-free policy for their cars, I start feeling around the dash for the packet of gum someone left in here at some point, eventually find it.

It’s gonna be a long fucking drive back. Maybe I’ll stop for coffee and a smoke before getting back on the freeway.

I unwrap the gum and stick it between my teeth. Glance back at Robby Scholl’s house in my rearview, watch it until it disappears around the corner.


	26. Gift, Wrapped

__

_Gift, Wrapped  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

Jacob Lurie. Jennifer Gruber. Oscar Sota. Robert Thatcher. Marcus White.

That’s it. That’s the rest of them. We’re just waiting on one last DNA match to confirm White.

15 killers, rapists, drug dealers and addicts, domestic abusers. 15 general shit stains. And three people who, oddly, have no records at all. Who were just IDed off Missing Persons. One who had their fingerprints in the system for being a government employee.

I look at their names.

I don’t know if that means they were innocent or just never caught.

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I look back at Jennifer Gruber’s file. I had to make the call to Robby Scholl yesterday after getting the confirmation. I can only imagine how much damage it caused, but I might not have to. He asked to be kept updated on the investigation, for his nieces’ sakes. And, maybe, for his too.

Though in Gruber’s case, I don’t know if finding her identity is going to prove anymore helpful than it has been for any of the other victims. I have a meeting at 2 with Dt. Cooley and the other FLPD officers who were on the original investigation into her and who were, as far as I know, some of the last people to see her alive. I have no fucking idea how helpful they’ll be, but it’s the only place I can think to start.

Batista’s back at his desk, digging through old notes. He was lead or involved in investigations into two of our dead guys— Rick Jensen and Anthony Rodrigo. Ramos is doing the same. Cook and Sanchez were talking to LaGuerta and Doakes, Camwell to Soderquist and Yale. Lundy just got back from another conversation with Matthews. But so far no one’s found anything helpful, at least in terms of leading us to our killer. We can’t figure out how the Butcher even knew some of these people were guilty, at least the ones who didn’t have prior records. Their names were never published in anything as being persons of interest, Sunshine Law or not.

But meanwhile something like twenty-plus cold cases have been reopened. Half of the task force and some of Homicide is now working all those old cases. We’ve all been warned that our victims’ murders are not proof positive of their guilt, but as the shit continues piling up all around them, I think even Lundy is starting to fall into that pit. And even if Pascal’s been too distracted lately to care, LaGuerta’s been practically creaming herself at the possible upswing in our stats.

I turn a page, then another.

I just don’t know what I’m looking for here. It’s not a mystery how he found out about Gruber, since the double murder and her arrest garnered a lot of media attention. But how did he _find_ her? When? Where? Did he just put a bag over her head in the FLPD parking lot, drive her to some basement somewhere, tie her down and chop her up? Did he grab her from that shitty little halfway house she was living in? How long did he stalk her? Why choose her, out of every killer in the county?

Did she tell him she did it?

Did she give a shit about her daughters? Did she think about them before he hacked her head off?

Or was she just afraid?

A buzzing sound attracts my attention away from the report, and I look at my phone. It’s sitting on the desk, display still lit up.

I reach for it.

 _Need to talk to you,_ it says. _Meet me in Dexter’s office._

It’s Masuka’s number.

I feel a thrill go through me. Like fear, but more exact. It’s a moment before I stand, slowly, still staring at the screen.

“Got something?” Lundy asks. He’s looking over at me from behind his monitor.

“I don’t know,” I say, shoving the phone in my pocket.

For once I don’t wait for him to say anything else, and if he’s intending to, I reach the door before he does. Don’t look at him as I open it and head down the hall, my gaze laser-focused on my brother’s office.

My anxiety mounts as I walk there. Already I know what he’s going to say. I’ve known it since I asked him to run the damn test.

I half trot the last few yards, open the door without pause. I find Masuka sitting alone in the office, looking at Dexter’s computer. Around him are stacks and stacks of boxes. The slats are closed.

The moment he meets my eyes I know. Without question.

“You found it,” I say.

“I’m sorry.” He grabs a couple stapled pages off his desk, holds them out to me. “Here. If you want to look at it.”

I take them, glance down at the first page. I find it after a few moments of skimming through the long-ass laundry list of chemicals he tested for.

_M-99 (Etorphine Hydrochloride)_

And all at once it feels like there’s no air left in the room.

I grab a stool and sit down.

“So I’m not crazy,” I murmur softly, still staring at the result.

He doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds, but pushes something else across the desk toward me. A folder.

“I ran your sample twice, to be sure,” he says. “After I confirmed it, I did what you said, checked all the BHB victims too. The ones who still had blood, anyway.”

“And?” I look at him.

He nods. “I found it in them too.”

I open the folder, immediately find the drug again. But this time in Renzo Sandoval. I flip pages. Rick Jensen. Mike Donovan. Shannon Reynolds. Jennifer Gruber.

_M-99 (Etorphine Hydrochloride)_

“Call it an homage,” I whisper. The anxiety is quickly converting to nausea.

“What?” Masuka says.

I look at him. “Has anyone seen this yet?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “And I ran your blood as a Doe. There’s still a record that I pulled the sample, obviously, but no one’s going to see it unless they look.”

“Good,” I say. Pause. “Thanks.” Feel a rush of gratitude. But it’s quickly subsumed by the nausea. By his voice. By the memory of lying there on that mat, bound and gagged and terrified.

_Because I really was a fucking Christmas present._

( _“I don’t usually work this way._ _Call it an homage to a fellow traveler I greatly admire._ _”_ )

“We have to bring this to Lundy,” I say over him.

“Everything?”

I look at Masuka. “Everything except that you found it in me too. I… need to think about what to do with this.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

I can’t keep the eye contact, and I find myself looking back down at the sheet, as if searching for some answer scrawled there between the lines of the blood panel. I’d been expecting this, but seeing it there…

Something very small inside me seems to shudder, crumple inward.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” I blow out a breath. “But it fucking doesn’t matter. We need to bring this to Lundy.” I push to my feet, grabbing all the blood work as I go. “I need to grab the Castillo file from my desk. Come on.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, right fucking now.” I can feel myself, thankfully, hardening. Against all the fucked-up shit inside me. “Get what you need and meet me at my desk.”

“Okay. Yeah.”

Nodding, I reach for the door, but stop before opening it. “Thanks for doing this. And for not telling anyone.” I glance back at him.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He looks a little startled.

Still nodding slightly, I pull open the door and head to my desk. The Castillo file is sitting in one of the drawers on top of a bunch of random crap. I drop my blood work in there before reaching for it. By the time I’ve pulled it out, Masuka is walking toward me. I look from him over to Batista, who’s looking at something on his computer.

“Angel,” I say. Doakes and LaGuerta glance up at me, and it occurs to me that I should probably involve them too. “Actually, Sergeant, Lieutenant, you should probably hear this too.”

LaGuerta’s brows raise. Batista’s already getting up, looking curiously between me and Masuka.

“What’s this about?” Doakes asks.

“Valerie Castillo,” I say, waggling the file.

His brows furrow. “That dead chick we found in the Airstream back in November?”

“That’s the one,” I say.

“Is this about the Butcher?” LaGuerta asks.

I nod. “Yeah.”

They both get up too, and without saying anything else I turn, lead them all to the briefing room. When we get there Lundy’s still sitting alone inside, typing, but he stops when we walk in.

My emotions are locked down tight, in that drawer along with my blood panel.

“Morgan, I see you’ve brought an entourage,” he says, getting up as we start to spread around the room. “Hello, Sergeant Doakes, Lieutenant LaGuerta, Vince, Detective Batista.”

“Hello, sir,” Doakes says.

“Agent Lundy,” Masuka says.

LaGuerta nods politely.

Lundy looks at me. “I assume this has something to do with that text you got.”

“Yes,” I say. Steeling myself, I step closer to him, hand over the first file in the folder. He takes it and opens it, and I talk as he skims, “Meet Valerie Castillo. We were all on the investigation into her homicide last November, which is why I figured they should hear this too.” I open the next file and pull out a couple of pictures. Everyone’s watching me as I hold up the first one: a close up of her face and neck, from the right side. “Look familiar?”

Doakes’ reaction is an immediate, hushed, “Shit.” Batista and LaGuerta look as surprised as expected.

Lundy’s mouth parts, and I can feel his energy sharpen to a knife point as he too, no doubt, recognizes the cut on her cheek. “Where did you find her?”

“In a dirty-ass trailer in a junkyard up in Opa-locka,” I say, handing the pile to him along with the folder. “But it gets better.” He looks up at me from the picture. “Valerie Castillo and her shitstick of a husband, Jorge, were coyotes smuggling in illegals from Cuba. They owned the salvage yard, and they were keeping people locked in the garage for ransom from family members and friends who’d already arrived here. When we found his boat we found five bodies inside of it. At that point the case became federal, and we transferred it over to you guys.”

“What happened to Jorge?”

I shrug. “We never saw hide nor hair of him. A couple days into the investigation, a knife turned up on a resweep of the yard with her blood and his fingerprints, so we assumed he fled the country, went back to Cuba or something. For awhile I suspected he was murdered with his wife and dumped somewhere instead of being put out on display. I don’t know if you guys ever tracked him down, but now I think that again.”

Lundy looks up from the pictures. “What do you mean?”

Around him, understanding is dawning on the other cops’ faces. All of them were aware of my theory, because, despite what my brother said about it, I couldn’t help trying to pull them all into it.

But for the first time I hesitate. Because I have to say it, and I know it’ll instantly taint what I’m arguing. And because it still holds power over me, even if I do currently feel numb to the core. “We caught this case in the middle of the Ice Truck Killer investigation,” I say, and they all seem to react slightly to it too. “That’s why we were all originally called to that scene. The first responders thought it could’ve been another one of his… displays,” I practically spit the word. “We quickly decided he didn’t kill her, but I became convinced that the person who murdered her was trying to emulate him. That he was a copycat.” I inhale, pull the next folder, the one Masuka gave to me. “Now I believe I was right all along. I’m certain Jorge didn’t kill her, and that an ITK copycat did. And I believe that that copycat was the Bay Harbor Butcher.” I hold out the folder.

There’s a stunned silence as everyone stares at me, as it finally comes out. Out of the blue, for some random, petty, retarded reason, I wish Dexter could be here to hear this.

Lundy takes the folder, but doesn’t open it. “What’s this?”

“One of the weird things about Valerie’s murder— you know, besides fucking everything —was that we found this animal tranquilizer in her blood, M-99. Presumably he used it on her to put her down so he’d have an easier time killing her. That was one of the reasons we knew the Ice Truck Killer didn’t kill her. He never drugged his victims.”

Never— except once, anyway.

I swallow, continue before any of that shit can pierce the comfortable, controlled numbness, “When I remembered the Castillo case I asked Masuka to run the Bay Harbor Butcher’s victims’ blood for M-99. Today he got the results.” I look at the lab tech, and so does everyone else.

He glances between me and the group before speaking. “11 of our victims had enough viable soft tissue for a tox screen,” he says, and I feel another rush of gratitude for him keeping the other half of this secret. “All of them had traces of M-99 in their system.”

“All of them?” Lundy repeats.

“Yeah. I ran them all twice.”

“Holy shit,” Batista says. “So we have a 19th victim.”

“Or a 19th and a 20th,” I say. “Though fuck knows if Jorge’s corpse’ll ever surface from the bottom of the ocean.”

“But say it’s true, and the Butcher did kill Valerie Castillo,” LaGuerta says, “why would he leave her in the junkyard to be found instead of dumping her body like the others? Why would he emulate the Ice Truck Killer at all?”

I shrug, because that’s the part I can’t talk about. Not yet, anyway. Or maybe ever. “I don’t know.” But the suggestion slips out before I can stop it, “Maybe he felt fucking _inspired._ ” Bitterly. Angrily.

I rein it back, before it can go anywhere.

“This is a lot to process,” Lundy says. “But this is excellent work, Morgan.”

“Thank you, sir.” For the first time, his praise doesn’t mean anything to me, and I find myself glancing at Masuka again. I don’t know if it makes this harder or easier that he knows the rest of it, and that he’s watching me hide it.

Lundy shuts the last folder. “I’ll contact our office immediately and request whatever they have on their side of the investigation, get some agents over here. In the meantime I’d like all of you to dig up whatever you have on that case so we can go over this in more detail, if you can spare the time.”

“Of course, sir,” Doakes says.

“M-99 is a controlled substance that requires a DEA license to order,” Masuka says. “During the original investigation we subpoenaed the DEA for a list of everyone with a license. Might be worth going through that list again.”

“Anyone on it seem interesting before?”

I shake my head. “No. But then again after we found the knife we dropped the copycat idea, and it quickly became a federal case. It’d be worth going through again.”

“Agreed.” Lundy nods, then hands me back all the folders and pictures before walking behind his desk. Without saying anything else, he picks up the phone and starts dialing.

Doakes walks over to me. “Guess you were right all along,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” I say, wishing I felt more vindicated.

“Good job.”

“Thanks.” I nod.

“Think it might be worth getting in contact with that kid again?” Batista asks, looking more at LaGuerta than anyone else. Suddenly I remember how much she bonded with that kid we found in the trunk, that she asked me about what is was like for our family after we adopted Dexter. “What was his name?”

“Oscar,” she supplies. “And I don’t know. He was pretty traumatized by the whole thing.”

“But who knows if he might’ve remembered something new since.”

“You might be right.” She nods. “I should still have his uncle’s number in my notes.” She starts to turn for the exit, then looks at me. “Good work, Morgan,” she says.

“Thanks.” I smile slightly.

She does too, then steps out, heads back toward the pen. With a nod to me, Doakes follows.

“I remember thinking Valerie got what she deserved,” Batista says. He’s looking around the room, at all the pictures.

“I remember thinking the same,” I say.

He looks sad. “I was wrong. She was a terrible human being, just like the rest of them, but she was still a person. No one deserves this.”

“Yeah,” I agree, not sure, somewhere deep down, if I truly do.

“Keep up the good work.” He claps my shoulder, then walks away too. Leaving me with Masuka, while Lundy talks into his phone.

“Thanks,” I say to the tech quietly.

“Yeah, you owe me one.” He flashes me the first lewd smile I’ve seen from him since I brought my request to him almost a week ago.

“Fuck off,” I say, snorting.

Flashing his brows, he follows Batista out the door.

And then it’s just me and Lundy and the giant pile of shit hidden in my desk. I open up Masuka’s folder again, scan through the blood panels. Mostly just stare at them, trying to accept what it all means. What it means for me.

“Alright.” I hear the phone click down to my right, and I look over at Lundy. “Those agents will be down soon. In the meantime we can pull the case, see what they dug up on our coyotes and what physical evidence they’re still holding onto over there. With any luck they’ve still got that trailer.”

“Yeah,” I say, closing the folder. For a moment I don’t move. Because suddenly I want to tell him everything. It’s like I need to, like it matters more than anything in the world that he know.

“Is there something else?” he asks.

But I can’t quite gather the courage. So I shake my head and walk over to his desk. “No,” I say. “There’s nothing else.”


	27. Is This the Answer?

__

_Is This the Answer?  
_ _Setting: “An Inconvenient Lie”_

* * *

“Motherfucker,” I hiss, downing another shot of the vanilla Mexican tequila an old boyfriend gifted to me a couple years ago. He may be gone, but this shit has gone the distance. Mostly because I’ve only had it occasionally since it’s so fucking sweet it’s like drinking dessert. “Fuck, that’s good.”

I set the glass on the counter, savoring it. Then I carefully rinse it out, line up a shot of spiced single malt. It was also a gift, also imported, this time from some distillery up in New York.

Because I just want to get fucked up. On the stuff that was too expensive or too good to put in the storage unit. Because I just want to fill this ache in the pit of my stomach. Because for some reason I can’t seem to cry over it.

After I brought the Castillo case to Lundy’s attention, we spent the rest of the day going over it, at least until I had to drive up to Fort Lauderdale to talk to Cooley and his partner, Levengood, about Jennifer Gruber. Unsurprisingly, it was yet another conversation that went nowhere. Neither of them ever so much as suspected she’d disappeared because she was dead. They thought she’d just fled, somehow slipped through the cracks.

I close my eyes as I smell the whiskey. But I’m still enjoying the taste of the tequila, not quite ready to purge it yet.

And besides I can already feel all those edges filing down.

When I got back I joined a round table over Castillo with Lundy, Batista, and a couple feds. I remembered the agents as the ones Doakes and I met with when we handed the case over, though I’d forgotten their names. They confirmed what I’d expected: that they were never able to find Jorge, in Cuba or anywhere else. Like us, they couldn’t find a trace of him after his wife’s death. But the bodies in Jorge’s boat led them to a larger smuggling operation, and they’re currently gathering enough evidence to make a couple arrests.

For awhile the feds had apparently been floating the idea that the Castillos had been killed by someone else in the ring, or maybe even a former ransom victim, but their theory never panned out. They were very interested in what we had to suggest Valerie had been murdered by the Butcher, instead of Jorge or anyone else, but unfortunately they didn’t have anything to help us with our case, and the Airstream and the boat are long gone.

Not that I’d really expected any different.

I start to raise the shot but pause before drinking it, hearing a scuffling sound from outside the door. I let it hover in the air as the lock turns and the door opens, as it’s quickly stopped by the chain.

“Deb!” Dexter calls.

For some reason it takes a full second before it registers that I actually have to go over there. I set the shot down next to the bottle, then walk to the door and close it in his face so I can undo the chain. Once it’s free, I pull it back open.

“Thanks,” he says as he steps in.

“Yeah,” I say, walking back around the counter. When I get there I drink the shot, exhale as it burns its way through me. Fuck, it’s good.

Meanwhile Dexter’s setting his purse on his desk, along with his keys. He carefully drapes his blazer over the back of his chair, smooths it out, then comes in my direction, throws an empty water bottle in the trash. As he turns he finally notices the bottles sitting on his counter.

“Having a party?” he asks mildly, loosening his tie.

“It doesn’t always have to be cheap fucking beer,” I say. I’m thinking about having another shot, but I know, even through the growing cloud in my head, that I’m going too fast. “Want some?”

He walks closer, lifts the single malt and examines it, then the tequila. “I’m good,” he says eventually.

“Your loss.” I shrug. Almost pour myself another. Don’t.

He looks at me weirdly as he moves around the counter, takes a seat on the stool. “What’s the occasion?”

I laugh unhappily. “Everything’s just so fucked,” I say, then reach down to grab a glass from the dishwasher, which I fill with tap water. Drink that instead. “How was court?”

“It went well. They’re calling me again tomorrow though for opposing counsel.”

I drain the glass. “Gonna eat your whole day again?”

He shakes his head. “Should just be a couple hours this time.”

“Good.” I nod, pour more water.

He watches me for a beat, and I wait for him to ask. I don’t know why. I’m going to tell him anyway, because I can’t stand this ache inside me. But I want him to.

And, finally, he does: “Did something happen today?”

“Yeah.” I nod. But I don’t know where to start. I’ve been keeping this to myself for almost a week, and now that it’s time, it’s like it doesn’t want to be exposed. Like it’s going to wound me even more in the process. And even though I thought I knew what I wanted to say, I suddenly can’t remember any of it. “Did Masuka tell you anything about his trace results from the Bay Harbor victims?” is what comes out of my mouth.

He shakes his head. “No.”

Now I do pour myself the shot. After setting down the bottle, for an extended moment I just look at the glass. When I glance back at my brother, he’s staring at me intently. “You know how they died?” I ask, and answer before he can say anything, “Nude and wrapped up in plastic, like fucking supermarket chickens. And he gagged them with duct tape. Sound familiar?” I down the shot, but this time it doesn’t taste nearly as good. It can’t burn away that big, black hole inside me. Can’t even seem to reach it.

Dexter looks horrified when I meet his gaze again, or as close to that as his face can get.

“Rudy said something to me, right before he knocked me out,” I say very quietly, leaning against the counter for support. “He said he…” I swallow cinnamon-tinged revulsion. “He said he ‘didn’t usually work this way.’ He said that it was an homage. And then he stuck a needle in my neck.” I swallow again. When I look at Dexter his attention is locked on me. “For a long time I thought I’d imagined it, or I’d misunderstood, or, fuck, I don’t know what I thought. It didn’t make any fucking sense. I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. An homage to _what_?”

I’m definitely drunk. The thought occurs to me as I lay my wrists against the cool counter top. As I crave another shot. Or a cigarette. Or some fucking Xanax.

“But then I saw Masuka’s trace report and I realized…” I laugh sourly. “It _was_ an homage. To the fucking Bay Harbor Butcher.”

All that grief seems to squeeze tight, and I wish I could cry, wish I could find a way to release it, but I can’t. It just _hurts,_ so fucking terribly.

“Deb,” Dexter says cautiously. “Are you sure?”

“What, that it’s not just some bizarre fucking coincidence?” I ask acidly. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to be sure. I’ve got fucking _evidence_ now.”

He’s staring at me. If I didn’t know that I’m almost certainly projecting, I’d say he looks a little afraid. “What do you mean?”

Wordlessly, I grab the file sitting on the other side of the sink and drop it in front of him. He opens it, then stares at it questioningly. “What am I looking at?” he asks.

“You remember that case we worked back in November? That chick who was killed and laid out on that table in the Airstream? The one you didn’t believe was a copycat?” I know I’m not angry at him, but I’m getting more pissed off by the moment. By the pain that’s filling my guts, twisting them into knots. By how fucked up this is.

“Valerie Castillo,” he says.

“That’s the fucking one.” I tap my fingers on the table. “The night Masuka turned in his trace report I remembered her. I don’t know why it took me so long. But she had that same cut on her cheek that all the Butcher’s victims have, at least the ones who have cheeks anymore. Or heads. And she was exactly the kind of murderous sack of shit that the Butcher would target.”

He’s looking back at the report. “M-99,” he says, looking kind of pale.

“Yeah, that’s where I was going.” I run the tap for some more water.

“Deb, whose blood is this?” he asks.

After drinking all of it, I set the glass down, then press my hands flat against the counter. “Mine. From that night. That’s the sample the hospital sent to the department. I asked Masuka to run it.”

“Shit,” he murmurs.

“And guess who else had M-99 in their blood?” I ask.

He doesn’t say anything, but he looks shocked.

“The Bay Harbor victims,” I supply. “In every one of them Masuka could test, he found it.”

He looks back at the report. For a moment he’s silent as he processes what I’m saying, and I wait for him to meet my gaze again, feeling somewhere between livid and woozy. “What do you think it means?” he asks.

“I think it means that the Butcher killed Valerie Castillo and laid her out as some sort of sick present for the Ice Truck Killer. She was reasonably close to the kind of women Rudy murdered, physically anyway. Trim and pretty. But instead of a whore she was a killer.” I’m so angry I can’t even think straight anymore. Or so drunk. “I think he killed both her and Jorge, dumped the husband, then cleaned out that half of the Airstream, brought in a table and a table cloth, and laid her out for him. Like a friendly little, ‘Hey, I know what you did last fucking summer.’” I swallow. “Or, who knows, maybe they were in fucking communication and it was all just a game.”

“What does that have to do with you?” Dexter asks.

“I still don’t fucking know,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t know why he’d want to kill me like that. I used to think he brought me out to that house because he knew he couldn’t get me back to his apartment and his rack. I thought he was being creative, or maybe he just wanted me strapped down so he could take his time with me, kill me slowly. Saw me apart while I screamed, while I begged for my life, or for him to end it, like he did to Tony Tucci.” I’ve never said any of this shit to Dexter before, or to anyone, at least not like this. All the things I’ve thought about.

The pain is clawing upwards, tearing into my heart. Taking it apart.

But I still can’t cry.

Dexter slides off the stool and moves toward me. “Deb, maybe—”

“No.” I hold up my hand as he reaches for me, back away slightly. “I have to… I need somebody to know.”

“Okay.” He backs off.

I push my hair behind my ears, blow out a breath. “And maybe that is why he did it, or part of the reason. But now I think it’s more than that. I think he wanted my death to be some sort of message for the Butcher, like a fucking… Christmas card or something.” The pain is so bad I almost want to hurt myself to make it stop, put a fucking knife through my hand, and more than anything I want another drink, even though I know it’s not going to help. “Maybe he knew the Butcher only kills criminals, and he wanted to serve him a dead cop. Like maybe he thought it’d be _ironic._ Like maybe he thought it’d be so fucking _funny._ ” My hands are uncoordinated as I pour myself another shot of whiskey, end up spilling a lot of it on the counter. “Fuck,” I whisper.

“Deb,” Dexter starts to say again.

I gulp it down, gasp at the burn. “Like maybe he was saying what fucking difference does it make?” I say. “Kill a murderer, kill a whore, kill a cop, what does it matter? We’re all the same. We’re just fucking _bodies._ That’s all I was to him. Just a goddamn fucking body to fuck and to murder. To cut into little pieces.”

There’s nothing anymore except the pain. It’s excruciating, ripping everything up with jagged teeth.

My hands are shaking badly as I reach for the bottle, but it’s tugged out of my grip. Rage flashes through me as I look at Dexter. “What the fuck?”

“I think you should stop,” he says.

“Fuck you,” I hiss. And it’s like I want to attack him, rip off his fucking face and run it through the garbage disposal.

“Deb, come on.” He comes back closer, lays his hand on my shoulder. Instantly, I feel some of the anger dissipate. Fuck, but it _hurts_. “Breathe,” he says.

I try. Once. “Is this the fucking answer?” I ask, searching his eyes for something I know he doesn’t have. “Is this why he did it? To make a fucking _point_?”

“I don’t know.”

I shake my head, looking down. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? When we catch the Butcher, is he going to look at me and see the Ice Truck Killer’s play thing? Some unfinished project?”

“I don’t know,” he says again.

I blow out a breath. It hurts. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

He’s silent for a moment. But even without him saying anything, the pressure on my shoulder is slightly reassuring. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks eventually.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” Change my mind. “Give me back the bottle.”

He shakes his head. “Except that.”

“Then no.”

Another beat. Then he gives my arm a tug. “Come on,” he says. “Maybe you should sit down.”

I don’t argue, just allow him to lead me to the couch, even as the ground bucks beneath my feet. When we get there I lose my balance as I try to sit, collapse onto the cushions. My head is stuffed full of cotton, while the rest of me throbs as one, deep, painful knot.

“Are you sure you should stay on this case?” Dexter asks. At some point he sat beside me. The room seems to be slowly spinning around us.

“On the Butcher case?” I ask rhetorically. “I thought about getting off the task force. I almost did. But Lundy convinced me to stay.”

“How?”

It sounds so stupid now, as I think about it. “Because he said I was strong,” I admit. “Because he said I needed to accept what happened to me, to stop running from it.” I laugh. “He has no fucking idea how bad this is. And he doesn’t know about the M-99, or about how I was set up on that table.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” Pause. “Maybe. Fuck, if it helps with this investigation, I probably have to.”

“Would it really help though?” he asks. “Brian Moser is dead. You might just end up dragging everything that happened to you back into the spotlight and get nothing out of it. Except more nights like this.”

I look at him. I’m kind of surprised to hear him tell me to keep this to myself. Unless he’s just trying to protect me. “I don’t know,” I say again after a second, because I really don’t. “Fuck.” I bury my face in my hands. Everything’s swimming around me, and my insides feel chewed up and torn apart.

He starts rubbing my shoulder again. It’s probably the only thing he can think to do.

“It’s like he’s killing me over and over,” I say softly. “I may’ve lived, but he still fucking has me.”

“It won’t be like this forever.”

“Won’t it?” The apartment is over bright when I open my eyes to look at him, and it’s still spinning. I feel sick.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Because you are strong, Deb. Lundy was right about that.”

“I sure as shit don’t feel strong.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

I wish I could believe him. Wish it was enough to leach away some of that awful fucking grief inside me, enough to relieve the ache.

But it isn’t.


	28. Eleven Weeks

__

_Eleven Weeks  
_ _Setting: “See-Through”_

* * *

It’s week three of the Bay Harbor Butcher investigation.

For some reason that’s what I think about as I get of bed and head for the bathroom, as I leave it and go to grab some OJ from the fridge.

It’s week three of the investigation, and already we’ve got names for every corpse in the tent, and we’ve got a pattern. It feels like months ago that all those people were piling up in the hall outside the pen, anxiously wanting to know if their loved ones were one of the people we pulled up from the bottom of the ocean. It feels like even longer since I asked Lundy to take me off the case, and that he got me to stay on it.

Next week I’ll have been back on the job a month.

I look around for a glass, give up within seconds and just drink straight from the carton. There’s not much left anyway.

I feel okay this morning, probably because it’s Monday and I have work to look forward to. Saturday I dragged myself over to my penultimate meeting with Wheeler completely hungover and miserable, ended up drinking away most of the night again. Yesterday I stayed in bed a couple hours longer than I normally would, felt like shit for it. Or maybe I would’ve felt like shit anyway, from the hangover. I don’t know.

I’m still at a loss. I can’t know for sure that I’m right about why Moser set me up on that table the way that he did, why he dragged me out to some house in the middle of bumblefuck to drug me and wrap me up in plastic, and I never will. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe it. It makes more sense than anything else has.

But I used to think if I had a rationale, just anything, no matter how insane or twisted the logic, it would help. Like, somehow, it would make it make sense, make _him_ make sense, and that would bring me some modicum of peace.

But it hasn’t. If anything, it feels worse than not knowing.

And, if I’m honest, I’m afraid of where reopening the Castillo investigation could lead us.

I drain the OJ.

Dexter stayed here Saturday, I think mostly to keep me company, but last night I told him it was okay to go. He’s supposed to stay at Rita’s most of the week because her mother’s coming to town. It pisses me off that the thought of being alone for that long made me nervous, and that it still does.

Feeling annoyed and headache-y, I go into the bedroom, find the laundry basket where I set it last night, dig out some clean sweat clothes. Despite the heat wave, and despite the lack of time, I want to go for a run. Outside. It’s only the third time since he took me that I’ve felt safe enough to do it. I don’t know if it’s because I’m just so sick and tired of feeling trapped in this apartment, or if it’s because I haven’t had to see myself or the Ice Truck Killer in the news since the Butcher case broke. Maybe both.

I grab my iPod off the dresser, go into the bathroom and locate a hair tie, pull my hair back, come back out and grab my phone, keys, and a fanny pack to shove it all into. Sunglasses. Strap on my watch. Water. Then I’m out the door. As I exit the complex, I crank up the music loud enough that it drowns out my thoughts.

So I don’t think.

I just fucking… run. Into the early-morning heat. It absorbs me like a finger pushed through hot jello.

Somehow, bizarrely, it’s a relief.

And I almost feel like myself.


	29. Marcus White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking Thanksgiving off, so next update will be on the 27th. Have a happy holiday!

__

_Marcus White  
_ _Setting: “See-Through”_

* * *

I pull up the driveway slowly, rock to a stop a few yards off the bumper of a red Civic that’s already parked there. For a brief moment, I debate whether or not I should roll the windows down, whether it’ll make any difference. Finally decide to crack them before killing the engine and stepping out of the car, leaving my sunglasses in a cup holder as I go.

The heat hits like a sledgehammer made of steam, and I’m already sweating as I head from the car up to the front door. To the west, the setting sun burns through the leaves of palm and buttonwood trees, over rooftops. I find myself looking at it after I hit the doorbell, feeling oddly keyed to the moment.

I’m not sure how this conversation is going to go.

It’s not long before I hear footsteps, then the sound of a lock turning, and the door pops open.

“Officer Morgan?” the woman who opened it asks without preamble. She’s in her forties, black, and a little overweight, wearing slacks and a patterned, dressy-ish, sleeveless shirt that probably spent most of the day hidden beneath a blazer. Her hair hangs in dark, tight ringlets around her face.

“Yes,” I say. “And you’re Tamara White?”

“Yes,” she says. She leans forward, pushes the screen door that’s separating us out, and I back up to let it swing past. “Come in,” she says when it’s open, gesturing me inside.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping past her and into the house. She lets the screen door swing shut behind me, then gently closes the main door. It’s at least twenty degrees cooler in here, and I breathe a small sigh of relief.

“Sorry about the mess,” she says completely unnecessarily as she starts walking toward a couple couches. The house opens into a neat-looking living room that smells vaguely of dog and lavender oil. “I hope you’re not allergic.”

At her words I notice the thin coat of dog hair covering absolutely everything. Great. “No,” I say.

“I put my dog in the yard, but he’s a shedder and his fur gets everywhere. I vacuumed yesterday, if you can believe it.”

“I can believe it.” Resigning myself to my pants’ fate, I follow her to the couches.

She seems nervous as she turns to me. “Do you want anything? Coffee? Tea? Water? Coke?”

“No, thank you.” I shake my head.

“Okay.” She indicates the area. I note a glass of soda sweating on the coffee table next to a laptop and a cell phone. “Want to sit down?”

“Sure.” I sit across from the table, in a comfortable chair that seems to want to absorb me. I sit up in it, watching as she goes back to where she was obviously sitting earlier, crosses her legs. “I just wanted to say,” I start, because she looks so tense, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll admit it felt strange when I got the call that you had found him. That he was one of those bodies I’ve been seeing on the news.” She pauses. “But I guess I already knew something must’ve happened to him, for him to have disappeared the way that he did.”

“The detective you spoke with before said you last saw your brother in May of 2004?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She nods.

“But he was reported missing by a friend of his in July?” I’m just confirming facts at this point. I know Ramos already asked all this last week.

“Yeah.” Another nod. “But like I told the other detective I spoke with, I wasn’t very close with Mark.”

“Any particular reason, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She hesitates, and I instantly regret the direct approach. “He just…” she trails off. “I don’t know. We never really got along. We had a sort of polite truce, I guess you could call it, but we mostly didn’t keep in contact. The last time I spoke to him was on his birthday, which was May 17th. I doubt we were on the phone longer than five minutes.” She stops. “I’m not really answering your question, am I?”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I just want to know what kind of man your brother was.”

“What kind of man?” she repeats. And then she looks off for a second. “I’ve been following the news on this investigation pretty closely since I found out he was one of the people who were killed. At lunch today I saw the press release you put out.” She looks back at me. “Is it true they were all killers?”

Shit.

I flash back to the meeting this afternoon, shortly before the press release, when Matthews told us he was going to release the common profile of our victims. Lundy and I and half the cops in the room weren’t particularly happy as we watched his statement because it felt like we were giving away our only lead, but it never even occurred to me— or, apparently, to Matthews —how the news would affect any of the victims’ relatives who heard it. Especially because while 13 of the victims were associated with one or multiple homicides, not all of them had been convicted for one, or hadn’t been connected to anything since they’d served their time.

And then there were the others, like Marcus White, who’d never been suspected of anything at all, who were just down there for reasons we have yet to figure out.

City in chaos or no, it was premature.

But, then, what the fuck do I know?

“13 of the 18 people we recovered were associated with murder, yes,” I answer. “But your brother was not one of the 13.”

“I figured.” She doesn’t say anything more, though she looks like she wants to. “I—” She stops. “How did he die? When I talked with that first detective— what was his name, sorry?”

“Detective Ramos,” I supply.

“Detective Ramos,” she repeats. “When we spoke he said his autopsy hadn’t been completed yet. Do you know anything more now?”

Fuck me, this doesn’t get any easier. “Yes.” But I don’t think there’s a way to soften it. “He was stabbed in the chest, once. He died instantly.” Though who fucking knows how long he was left strapped to that table…

“Oh,” she says. After a beat she reaches for her soda, takes a long drink of it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “We can take a break if you need to.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m fine, really. I’ve had awhile to think about this now.” She still looks like she wants to say something, but instead she takes another sip of soda.

“Alright.” After another moment passes, I decide to nudge her. “I know you weren’t close with your brother,” I say, “but can you think of any reason he would’ve been targeted by the Bay Harbor Butcher?”

Another beat, then she sets down the glass. Slowly. “Yes.”

My attention sharpens as she recrosses her legs, looking like she’s struggling to voice her thoughts. I wasn’t expecting her to say that.

“Sorry, I don’t know how to say this,” she says finally. “I don’t even know why I think this. I don’t have any proof.”

“Take your time.”

She starts picking at a cuticle. “Mark…” She trails off. “This is going to sound ridiculous. But I always…” Again, she stops. “I work for an international engineering firm.” Now I have no idea where she’s going. “I went to school in Germany, spent most of my 20s in Europe. I came back Stateside to take a job with the firm I’m currently with because they wanted to shuttle me back and forth between our European offices. It’s only in the last few years that I’ve stopped moving around so much, since Mark disappeared and I had to come back to deal with what he left behind.” She stops picking at her fingers, flattens her palms against her legs.

“My parents had property. Like this house.” She gestures around. “And some others. When they were setting up their estate, I basically told them to leave all of it to Mark, because at the time I thought I’d eventually end up staying in Germany permanently. I figured I wouldn’t want to deal with any of it, and he could use the money anyway. He never really…” She trails off, then continues, “When he died, he was a tow-truck driver.” She looks slightly abashed. “I was doing fine.”

I nod, starting to guess where this is going.

“I was in Munich when they died— my parents. They died in a car accident.” Her fingers are drifting back together. “I still don’t really know what happened. There was an investigation into the accident, and they said it was a brake failure. Obviously, I flew back for the funeral. When I got here…” She’s started picking again. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can explain this. I’ve never talked about this before.”

“It’s okay.” I nod to encourage her. “Take your time.”

She’s quiet for a moment before speaking again. “There was just something about _him_ ,” she says. “I hadn’t really seen him since the last holiday I was here— probably Christmas or something, I don’t remember. There was something about his reaction. He didn’t want to go to the funeral. He didn’t want to hold the wake. He just… there was just something _off._ You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I understand,” I say. Even if my recent track record for detecting that kind of shit has been… poor.

Crystal fucking clearly.

“He was always kind of an alcoholic, but those couple weeks I was here it was like he was never sober,” she continues. “At first I thought it was just grief, but he said some strange things.”

“What kind of things?”

She shrugs, hesitates. “I… don’t remember.”

She’s obviously lying about that, but I don’t push it. This is a conversation, not an interrogation. And, besides, I know what it’s like not to want to think about something. “But it was enough to make you suspicious?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She nods.

“About what?”

Again, she hesitates. “I think… I think Mark might’ve had something to do with the car accident.” She looks horrified about the words that just left her mouth.

I don’t say anything, but the thought is immediate: that makes 14 out of 18.

“He was a tow truck driver. He used to work in a garage. He knew about cars. And I know he worked on their car a few times.” She stops. “For a long time I buried the idea, because it just seemed so terrible and insane. I mean, he was my brother. I know he wasn’t happy with his life, and I know he resented me and my parents for our success, but to kill them?”

“You think he killed them out of resentment?”

She shakes her head. “No. I think he killed them because the living trust was in his name, and because he was sick of his job and of being poor.”

“What made you believe he did it?” I ask, when she doesn’t go on.

Another shrug. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure I did until I saw the news this afternoon. When I realized he’d been down there with a bunch of other killers.” She starts reaching for her soda, changes her mind. “He’s been missing for almost three years now. I knew he had to be dead, because he never would’ve left all the money and the property, never would’ve let me move into this house, never would’ve left his shiny new Mercedes in the garage.” She’s talking without hesitation now, maybe finally putting a voice to all this awful shit that’s been inside her all these years. “When he disappeared, he’d already sold one of the houses and had this one on the market. He’d quit his job, moved out of his dinky apartment to live in the condo my parents owned in Surfside.”

Surfside, which runs against Bay Harbor.

“I went back to Germany as soon as I could,” she goes on. “I was just disgusted by what was going on, by what I felt when I saw him. The last time I talked to him was when I called him for his birthday, for the first time in I don’t know how long. I was just wanting to… I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to know if I was wrong about my suspicions, and to see if he was doing okay.”

“And was he?”

She nods. “Oh, yeah. He was great.” Her voice is acrid.

“How long was this after your parents passed?”

“They died in February. So…” she trails off as she counts, “three months.” She drinks her soda, drains it. The ice rattles against the glass.

Already I can’t wait to get back to Lundy, to tell him about this. But there’s another question left to ask, even if I can guess the answer: “Do you have any idea how the Butcher found your brother?”

“I have no idea,” she says, predictably. “But, then, I wasn’t here, and I wasn’t really involved with his life. I can’t imagine he told anyone though. Maybe you can ask his friend, the one who reported he was gone. Gabe… something. I don’t remember his name.”

“I have it.”

She nods. Exhales. “You have no idea how strange it is to talk about this as if it’s true. But it can’t be a coincidence, can it? For me to think this, and for him to have been found down there with over a dozen killers?”

“The Butcher killing him isn’t proof positive that he was guilty,” I repeat Lundy’s mantra to her— though, even saying that, her suspicion is pretty much enough for me.

She nods, looks down at her cup.

“You’ve never told anyone about this?” I ask after a beat of silence.

“Never.” She shakes her head. “It was too horrible to think about, let alone talk about. And what if I was wrong? No. I just wanted to forget it, honestly. Especially since he was dead anyway.”

“I understand.” I nod.

She exhales again. “I think I need more,” she says after a second. “Do you mind if I…?” She lifts the glass and waggles it.

“No. Go ahead.”

Nodding, she gets up. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“I’m okay. But thank you.” I offer her a small, polite smile.

“Alright. I’ll be right back.”

I nod as she walks to the kitchen, then disappears behind the island. I hear the fridge open, sounds of rummaging. I suspect she’s taking her time, and I don’t blame her. When I look to the left of the island, behind the dining furniture and on the other side of a sliding door, I realize a large lab mix is watching me through the glass. When I make eye contact with it, it woofs.

Smiling slightly, I look away, glance around the room. Lots of pictures and knick knacks, bookcases filled with books in German and English, a huge and almost certainly expensive painting of some European street, a couple of dog toys scattered around.

I wonder how much of the narrative she’s leaving out, or that she simply wasn’t aware of. Wonder how the hell the Butcher figured out Marcus White was a killer even though his own sister wasn’t sure. What if she did tell someone and just doesn’t remember, or doesn’t want to say? Like an old boyfriend or something? I can’t imagine being able to keep it to myself if I’d thought something like this about Dexter.

Then again I can’t even imagine thinking something like this about Dexter.

I hear the sound of a can popping open. Liquid fizzing.

Or was she really the only one who knew what he’d done? Did Marcus make the mistake of blabbing the reason for his newfound fortune to someone? Maybe to his buddy Gabe?

I blink as the lights come on, look back toward the kitchen as Tamara walks in with a fresh drink.

“Just noticed it was getting dark,” she says, then takes a sip. “Sorry about leaving you in it.”

It hadn’t even registered with me. “It’s okay,” I say.

She goes back to the couch and reclaims her seat. “So what else is there?” she asks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know that I’ve been that helpful.”

“Oh, you have,” I reassure her. “And it’s just a few more things, and then I’ll let you get back to your night.”

“Okay.” She nods.

Sitting forward, I fish my notebook and a pen out of my pocket, then unscrew the point. And even though I’m sure she doesn’t have much else of use to say, I go ahead and start running through the list. Just in case.


	30. Ebbing

__

_Ebbing  
_ _Setting: “See-Through”_

* * *

For a very, very long moment— for it doesn’t particularly matter how long —we both just lie here. Breathing. Sweating in the heat. I’m lying half on top of him, still sort of feeling the aftershocks, licking my lips, feeling his ribs expand and contract beneath my fingers. Feet half twisted in the sheets.

I feel… I don’t know.

Mostly thirsty.

Somewhere beyond thought.

And like I’m made of air.

I inhale, kiss his chest, press tongue to skin. Taste sweat. I’m very aware of our scent. His hand slides down my back. It feels so, achingly good.

Something rattles.

“I think my wrist is cramping,” he says suddenly.

“Hm?” I murmur, pushing up off his chest to meet his gaze.

His grin is embarrassed as he waggles the hand that I cuffed to the bed. “Could you…?” he says.

I laugh as I finally realize what he’s asking me, as it finally penetrates the pleasant haze that’s settled over my thoughts. “Yeah,” I say. “Hold on.” With difficulty, I roll off him, slide to the other end of the bed and reach for my gym bag, start trying to dig through it from up here. Since it’s impossible, I eventually haul it up onto the bed and sit up, take my purse out to make it easier. Pretty much everything in it fell out and mixed around when I got the cuffs earlier.

The first thing I end up locating is my gun. I pause when I find it.

For some reason.

“So what’s with the cuffs, anyway?” he asks.

I’m still looking at my piece, and I hastily shove it back in the bag, unsure what just happened to me. I’m glad he couldn’t see. “I’m a cop,” I supply, going back to looking. My badge somehow ended up inside my work shirt.

“Oh,” he says. Pauses. “This makes more sense now.”

“Yeah,” I agree, not really listening to myself. And then I think I find the keys, end up pulling out a piece of a pen instead. An ink stick and a spring.

I throw them on the floor, toward the corner of the room.

“I’m a writer,” he says after a second.

Finally I find the fucking thing. “Oh yeah?” I say, turning to him. “Anything I would know?”

“I doubt it.” He’s grinning at me.

The sight of him is so ridiculous, cuffed there to the bed, I can’t help but snort as I make my way back over to him. But when I reach him and raise the key to the cuffs, I pause again, swallow a sudden, small wave of nervousness.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

I look down at him, clear my throat. “Yeah.” But I still can’t make myself put the key in the lock. “Could you just…” I stop whatever I’m trying to say, force myself to just fucking do it. Because it’s fine. He’s fine.

And I have a gun.

Over there.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head, turn the key.

The cuff releases, and his hand falls out. Immediately, he sits up, starts rubbing his wrist. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep myself from shying away from him, and it’s at this precise moment I realize that the sex high is gone.

“You alright?” he asks again. Maybe he senses it.

“I’m great,” I lie, and to make myself believe it I lean forward, kiss him. Flinch very slightly as he touches me, helps direct me back down to his mouth, kisses me back. Slowly the fear ebbs away. As aware as I am of his hand on the back of my head.

Because it really is fine. He really is safe.

I think.

After we separate he sits up a little more, pushes the pillow down to glance at the nightstand, then looks back at me. “I think I’ve gotta start moving,” he says. “I’ve got a client at 5:30.”

“I thought you were a writer?” I ask, part of me not wanting him to go, the rest of me a little glad he was the one to bring it up.

“By night,” he says. “I’m also a personal trainer. Boxing mostly.”

“Ah.” I nod.

It occurs to me I probably should’ve known at least this much before we got here. Like maybe his last name too.

I shove the thought down.

Still grinning, he flashes his brows at me, kisses me lightly before rolling out of bed. “Bathroom?” he asks.

“Through the door,” I say, also grinning as I drink in the sight of him. As he peels off the condom. Grabs the other off the sheets, the wrappers off the nightstand. “On the left.”

“You’re welcome to join me.”

I laugh slightly. “I’ll think about it.”

Nodding, he walks to the door and opens it, steps out into the hall. I watch him go before rolling onto my back to stare up at the ceiling fan. Laugh again as I remember Dexter walking in earlier, sling my arm over my eyes in embarrassment.

God, fuck me upright. Of all the nights for him to actually come home…

I remember that second we made eye contact. The look on his face.

Fucking just stab me through the forehead with a kitchen knife. Just fucking kill me.

Somewhere not too far away, I hear the toilet flush.

We stopped after he came in. The impetus evaporated as effectively as if he’d dropped a nuclear bomb in the room. Neither of us did anything, didn’t move, as the front door closed, as a shadow passed across the window: my brother fleeing his apartment for who knows where. Probably Rita’s. Where he fucking should’ve been to begin with.

When he was gone, Gabriel looked at me, asked me who he was. He laughed as I explained, and eventually I did too, after I stopped wishing the Earth would open up and swallow me whole. And then he asked if I wanted to keep going. And I said yes.

The toilet flushes again, shower comes on.

I take my hand off my face, let it slide down my skin, come to rest just south of my stomach. Inhale.

I don’t know how this happened, already can barely remember making the decision to bring him here. The need consumed me, ate away any sense of reason. It wasn’t until I got him here, until I was halfway through his pants, that it caught up to me. That I realized I couldn’t allow him to get on top of me, couldn’t trust him to touch me. That I needed him just as much as I was terrified of him.

And now he’s just fucking… showering. In my brother’s bathroom.

And I’m okay. Maybe even better than. For the first time since that night.

Because I feel like I took some of it back, finally reclaimed this part of me he’d ripped away. I was starting to be afraid he’d have it forever.

Suddenly, randomly, I think of Lundy, find myself wondering how his date went. I don’t know why it feels like he gave me permission to do this, or somehow made it seem doable in a way it just hasn’t been before now.

I wonder, vaguely, how inappropriate it would be to tell him about tonight.

Snorting to myself, I get up and slide off the bed. I debate going to the bathroom for a second but decide not to, instead grab an over-sized night shirt that’s hanging off the treadmill and put I,t along with a pair of undies, on. I’ll just shower when he leaves. Though that doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ to.

I glance in the bathroom as I walk down the hall, grin as I catch sight of him through the glass. He catches my eye after a beat, gestures me over, but I shake my head, keep walking until I reach the kitchen. When I get there I find an abandoned beer bottle sitting on the counter, along with a small pile of mail and a copy of _South Miami Magazine._ “WHO IS THE BAY HARBOR BUTCHER?” the title article reads.

For once I don’t care about the answer to that question. All I can think about is how awkward it’s going to be the next time I see Dexter.

God, fuck me…

I reach for a glass, dump in some ice from the freezer, then turn to fill it with water. I drink it all in one go, pour myself some more. I’m not done drinking it when I hear the shower shut off, and I find myself waiting for the sound of footsteps.

And then Gabriel appears in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist. I feel a stab of heat, my chest constrict. Take him in again as he approaches, appreciating every inch of skin in the partial light. Fuck, but he’s pretty.

“Hello again,” he says.

“Hey.”

We grin like dopes at each other. It occurs to me that even if this is the last time we ever see each other, it’s okay. But I also hope it isn’t.

He comes a little closer, and I feel the floor of my stomach drop a flight.

More than hope.

“Want anything?” I ask. “Water or a beer or something?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

My stomach falls the rest of the way down as we kiss again. This time his touch doesn’t scare me.

“Want me to take you back to your car?” I ask when we separate, even though it’s not the question I really want to ask. My fingers have navigated dangerously far down his waist.

“Sure. If you’re offering.”

I grin. “Like I’m gonna make you take a fucking cab.” I remove my hands. “I’ll just hop in the shower while you get dressed, throw on some pants.”

“Sounds good to me.”

For a moment neither of us move, and the thought that we could also do none of those things shoots up from my libido, blinds me like a flare.

“I think I should get dressed,” he says, apparently reading my mind, “before it’s too late.”

“Good idea.” Oh, but I’m sad as he pulls away.

He shoots me a smile before he heads back for the bedroom.

I still feel hot all over as I take another drink of water, then move to follow him. I catch sight of him fishing his underwear from the floor before I turn for the bathroom.

I shower quickly, exhale into the steam. I can smell him all over the shower.

All that shit that was damming me up a couple hours ago is gone, abruptly and totally. For the first time since that night on the boat, I don’t feel like a Victim anymore, like some survivor or a refugee, like I’m somehow still strapped to that table. I feel like a fucking human being again. I feel like _myself._

Relief crashes through me suddenly, painfully, and I laugh back a couple tears, tilt my face into the water to wash them away.

I really felt like I’d lost it all, that I was too broken to put anything beyond a semblance of myself back together. And even though I know I still have a long way to go before I’m whole again, at least I know I’m finally getting closer.

Thank god.

Thank fucking god.

Thoughts sliding back to Gabriel, I reach for the knob, kill the water.


	31. Rebound

__

_Rebound  
_ _Setting: “See-Through”_

* * *

It was well into the evening by the time I got back from interviewing Marcus White’s friend, Gabe Gibson, the guy who first registered him as missing. I’d gone there expecting nothing and left having received as much— he didn’t have any idea why Marcus ended up in the bottom of the bay with a bunch of murderers, or, if he did, he wasn’t feeling compelled to share, and he only had a ballpark for the day Marcus was likely abducted. In fact, he barely had anything to say. Somewhere between the Don’t Tread On Me flag pasted to the bumper of his white F-150 and the way his lips curled when he saw my badge, I didn’t get the impression he wanted anything to do with me. I was surprised he let me into his little shit pot of a house at all.

But for once I don’t really feel discouraged about it. So far it’s been the same story for every cop on this case. The Butcher’s a ghost, and most of his victims were people who few, if any, gave much of a shit about. Some of them were never even reported missing. And the ones who did have friends or family didn’t seem to have anyone who was close enough to their lives to see or be told about any weird, shadowy figures in the night. Over and over it’s just that they stopped showing up, stopped answering calls, but few are quite sure even to the week when they might’ve been taken.

We may have an unbroken pattern, but I’m starting to feel more and more that it won’t be our victims that lead us to the Butcher. It’s ridiculous that Masuka’s rock algae marine biologist thing is the most promising lead we’ve got on the table right now.

Exhaling, I look up from Jennifer Gruber’s phone records, rub my neck. Besides the officers who arrested her for the double murder of Dustin Scholl and his shiny new wife, I can’t find anyone she last talked to. As far as I can tell, beyond the children she was estranged from, the woman was alone in the world. The vast majority of these calls trace back to her ex’s house, and most of the rest belong to delivery places, a post office, a bank.

I glance around the department idly. Push down a random, unbidden thought of last night’s activities.

Batista’s at his desk, typing slowly. He came back right around the time I did, laden with a half dozen firearms that he recovered from Oscar Sota’s walls. He sent the guns over to the lab guys to be tested, and we’re all banking on the assumption that they’re going to come up with something. Sota was our last hold out, and suddenly he’s looking a lot guiltier than he did yesterday.

My gaze travels past him, lands on the lieutenant’s office, which LaGuerta has already reclaimed. It took her five seconds to move in there after Pascal cleared out her shit. I wasn’t here to witness the meltdown, and I’m kind of glad about it, but it wasn’t much of a shock to walk in here and see Pascal packing a box. From day zero, even through the haze of my almost being murdered, I hadn’t expected her to last.

I watch LaGuerta for a couple seconds. She’s talking to Doakes. The door’s shut.

There have been some nasty rumors flying around, that LaGuerta’s having an affair with Pascal’s fiance. It seemed like typical sexist bullshit, and I would’ve dismissed it outright, but, watching her, some part of me can’t help but wonder if it’s true.

If it is, she’s an even more venomous snake than I thought.

My gaze slides over to Doakes, and I feel a pang.

He just fucking killed someone, earlier today, probably while I was still driving up to Sunrise. He only just came back to the station— from the scene or the force investigation team or wherever —and I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to him, to find out what happened. The story I got from around the pen wasn’t very complete.

This is the second time he’s had to exercise lethal force in less than four months. And I still remember the way he was last time, when we talked about it. What I glimpsed behind his usual wall was cold and hard and immovable. Scar tissue compressed into stone. It scared me.

I look away, back at the sheet. Flip the page up. Credit card records. I’ve already gone through them and gotten zilch for it. Everything in this pile of shit I subpoenaed has given me zilch and I’m starting to feel frustrated with it.

I resist the urge to mash my fists into my eyes, decide to get up instead, if anything just to stretch my legs. Once I’m up I debate going out for a smoke, barely stop myself from reaching for my purse and extracting the box.

Coffee. I’ll have coffee instead.

It’s with great effort that I force myself away from my desk and toward the break room. To fill the nicotine void, I start scrounging around cabinets and then the fridge, finally locate a cheese stick. I pull it out of the drawer, investigate the packaging. No expiration date. Peel the thing open and give it a sniff.

I mean, it smells okay.

Shrugging to myself, I eat a little strip of it, then go over to the sink and grab my mug from the drying rack. I’m still dying for a cigarette, even as I pour myself some coffee and drink a lot of it, make my way through the stick. It tastes as okay as it smells.

My thoughts continue bouncing around as I go back to foraging. From Gabriel to Valerie Castillo, and back again.

I already know I’m going to go to the gym tonight at least in part to look for him, but I don’t know what’s going to happen if I find him. Dexter made it a point earlier to tell me he won’t be home tonight. I’m not sure whether or not I was offended by his tone, but I can’t help thinking about it.

As the day’s worn on I know I don’t regret what happened, and that it doesn’t need to be anything more than what it was.

Even though, maybe, in some deep, inside place I don’t really want to acknowledge, I don’t think I did it, or want it, for the right reasons.

I finish the cheese stick, start pulling grapes out of an open Tupperware container sitting on the counter.

And as for Valerie Castillo, I’ve pointedly avoided asking about what’s going on with that investigation beyond the non-updates Lundy’s given me. I know they’re rerunning the DEA list now, trying to track down some of the Castillos’ ransom victims, have a call in to that kid Oscar’s uncle to see about reinterviewing him. So far they’ve basically got nothing more than we did originally.

I don’t know if I’m ever going to tell Lundy the rest of it. I don’t know if I could stand to have to dig it all up, to have to fucking… explain it to him. To have to convince him to believe me. Every time I imagine trying to have that conversation, I want to walk off the roof.

I think about Gabriel again.

If I did see him again, would I have to explain it to him too?

Or does he already know? Is that why he hit on me? Is that why he wanted to fuck me? I didn’t get that read off him, but I don’t trust my instincts anymore.

But what if that is what happened? What if that’s all I am to him? Or am I just being paranoid and self-absorbed?

I de-stem a bunch of grapes, cram them all into my mouth at once.

“Hey, Morgan.”

I start slightly, turn to see Doakes pouring the last of the coffee into a plastic cup.

I swallow everything, only half chewed. Painfully. “Hey,” I say. Fucking grapes.

He sticks the empty pot in the sink, runs water into it.

Suddenly I find I don’t know what I wanted to say, now that he’s here. “I heard about what happened,” is what I come up with. Lamely.

“Yeah, you and everyone else.” He swishes water around the pot, dumps it out. “Got some sage words of advice?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m just fine.” He sticks the pot back in the coffee maker, turns to face me. When I meet his eyes I find them hard and guarded, but at least he’s not running away.

“What happened?” I ask, leaning back against the counter. “No one’s been able to give me the details.”

“I went down to meet with a friend of our suspect, Curtis Barnes. Turns out it was just him— Curtis —waiting for me. He was a Ranger too, said we knew a lot of the same people. He was hoping to get a pass, even as he admitted to killing his wife.” He takes a sip of coffee, and as he does I notice his sidearm is missing. “When I didn’t let him run off to fucking Cuba, he drew, and I fired first. Shot him before he could shoot me.”

He seems remarkably steady as he takes another sip. It’s with a note of unease that I remember, even discounting these two shootings, that Doakes has killed other people. I don’t know how many, don’t want to know.

An inappropriate question pops into my head, suddenly and horribly. I shove it way the fuck down.

“Are you taking any time?” I ask instead, crossing my arms.

“Maria wants me to take the rest of the week.”

“And will you?”

He smiles thinly. “It wasn’t a suggestion.”

As he drinks again I find myself remembering the conversation we had before, just after he’d shot that man under the causeway, when he said he hadn’t had a choice. I remember what he said about having seen evil, and that he hoped I never would. In the interim since my world was ripped inside out.

Again that question pushes up, and again I shove it down.

“Did you have a choice?” I ask.

His gaze is still hard as he looks at me, shakes his head. “No.”

I nod.

Before I can think of something else to ask, he speaks, “So how’s your investigation going?”

I shrug. “Whole fuckload of dead ends. Right now we’re waiting on some marine biologist friend of Masuka’s to come in and look at some rocks.”

He scoffs. “That sounds promising.”

I smile slightly, reach for a couple more grapes. “Hey, you never know.”

He smiles a little too, but it fades as he swishes his cup. “And you’re doing okay?”

The flicker of concern catches me off guard. I stop fiddling with a grape stem. “Yeah,” I say, glad that for once my answer doesn’t have to be total bullshit. “It’s getting better.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He drains the last of the coffee, then glances behind him. “Anyway, I better get going before Maria has me fucking escorted out of the building.”

“She really strong-arming you out?”

He makes a face. “Yeah.” He opens a cabinet, bins the cup. “See you later, Morgan.”

“Yeah. See you.” But as he turns to go I can’t help myself, can’t stop myself. I step forward. “I…” He pauses, looks back at me as I falter. “How did it feel?” I hear myself asking. Instantly regret it as he meets my eyes again.

“To kill Curtis Barnes?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah.”

Another beat passes as he studies me, and I have the sudden impression that he knows why I’m asking. “It didn’t feel like anything,” he says finally.

And without giving me a chance to say anything else, he turns and walks away. I feel almost breathless as I watch him stop to get something from his desk, then disappear around the corner.

I wish I’d never opened my mouth.

For a few seconds I turn the grapes I’m still holding over in my hands, but I’ve lost my taste for them, and eventually I just toss them. I’m still going over what he said as I grab my mug and head back to my desk.

Suddenly I’m a lot less at ease than I was a couple minutes ago. Doakes is one of the only people I’ve ever known who can make me feel like I’m transparent. I don’t like that I just let him see something he shouldn’t have, a glimpse into some of that deeply fucked up shit I can barely even admit to myself is there.

Even if I think that, of anyone, he would probably understand.

I pull out my chair and go to take a seat. My butt’s barely hit the cushion when I notice Batista walking over.

“Hey,” I say, setting down my mug as he stops beside me.

“Hey,” he says. “I saw you talking to Doakes. How is he?”

I shrug. “He says he’s fine.”

He glances between me and the direction the sergeant disappeared. He looks like he wants to say something, but after a beat all he says is, “I guess that’s good.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel.” I pick up the open folder containing Gruber’s records, close it, drop it on top of White’s. I have the sudden revelation that I’m not going to accomplish anything else today.

Not that I accomplished anything today.

“I’m gonna go see what’s happening with Sota’s guns,” Batista continues. “I don’t really expect anything so soon, but…” he trails off. “You got any plans for tonight?”

I shrug again, push away an impure thought. “I don’t know yet.”

“Well, if you want to join, Simms, Soderquist, Yale, and I are going to some new Jamaican place up in Edgewater.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, though I already know I won’t. Because I won’t be able to fucking help myself.

Nodding, he starts to walk away, and I find myself looking blindly at my monitor in his absence, thoughts already beginning to yo-yo again. Gabriel, Doakes, Castillo, the Butcher.

The Ice Truck Killer.

He said it didn’t feel like anything…

My fingers curl as I let myself think about it. Peak down the rabbit hole.

I remember walking into that freezer, the sight of him hanging there. That livid mix of grief and relief. And of Nothing.

The room starts to tunnel, and something sick pushes up my chest. My breath catches.

( _how would it have felt_ )

Abruptly, I shove myself to my feet.

Lundy. I’ll go see what Lundy’s doing.

Clearing my throat, I get up and speed in the direction of the briefing room. The second I catch sight of him, the tension eases, as quickly as it latched onto me. I slow down and breathe.

Thank fucking fuck.


	32. Looking for a Lead

__

_Looking for a Lead  
_ _Setting: “See-Through”_

* * *

“Can you give me a minute?”

I nod. “Sure.”

“Thanks.”

I lean against the counter as Nick Escobar, the bartender I’ve been talking to for the past couple minutes, exits the bar and disappears behind a pair of swinging doors, leaving me pretty much alone in here besides the other bartender on the opposite end of the counter and the five people scattered around the room. I tried to time my arrival to hit the evening lull.

I swivel slightly to glance around at nothing in particular. Look at the back of the laptop of the guy hunched in the corner, far away from the windows.

This is the last place I was able to trace Marcus White, from a credit card charge here at 12:28 in the morning, July 26th, 2004. It was the last one made to any of his cards. Curiously, that same night someone at the bar called in a complaint to the police about a patron vaguely matching White’s description harassing some chick whose name was never recorded. By the time uniforms showed up though, the guy was gone, and she wasn’t interested in giving a statement.

By some speck of luck, it turns out it was Nick who phoned in that call three years ago. Less luckily, he doesn’t really remember it. Even less luckily, the bar owner apparently keeps all old incident logs at his home instead of here, and I’ll have to contact him for the ‘04 book.

I’ve been out since this morning knocking on doors. Of White’s neighbors who were home, most of them had no memory of him or only knew his parents. The ones who knew the Whites I talked to longer, but none of them had anything useful to say. They said they were just quiet, vaguely affluent, rarely there— mostly the condo was being sublet until Marcus inherited it.

But the vast majority just stared at me blankly— because they were new, because why the fuck would snowbirds ever get to know their neighbors? Mostly they wanted to know why I was asking.

I felt frustrated by the time I finally left the building, ended up stopping for tacos and a couple cigarettes from a food truck parked near the water. It was a relief to be able to sit there and, for once, enjoy the breeze without being paralyzed by some neurotic fear of the ocean. Instead I thought about the case. And Gabriel and our date on Saturday. And Gabriel and our get together Monday night.

I went through more cigarettes than tacos. Regretted it within moments of grinding out the last one.

And now I’m here.

I hear swishing, and I turn to see Nick coming back in, a couple bottles held between his fingers, which he slips below the bar.

“Have a chance to jog your memory?” I ask without any confidence.

He shrugs. “Like I said, it was, what, three years ago? I don’t even think either of them were regulars.”

“What about security tape? Any chance you’ve got anything from that long ago?”

He makes a face. “From three years ago?”

I sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

He lifts a box from below the counter, pauses after he sets it down. “Look, I can ask Max,” he says. “I guess nothing’s impossible. I just wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

Oh, they’re not. “I’d appreciate it,” I say. I reach into my pants for a card, wait for him to finish opening the box before handing it over to him.

“Why are you asking about this guy, anyway?” he asks with forced casualness as he starts pulling out bottles and sticking them under the counter.

I wonder if he’d remember any more if I told him, decide to give it a shot. “He’s dead,” I say. “This is the last place he was seen alive.”

“For real, that long ago?” He stops what he’s doing. “Wait, like he was murdered or something?”

“Yeah.” I pause. “On both counts.”

“Damn,” he says. He looks way more interested than he did five seconds ago. “By who?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” And that’s the part I can’t talk about.

“Hm.” He flips the box over and cuts the bottom seams.

I wait without interrupting him as he collapses it, take a sip of the club soda he offered me when I came in.

“Honestly, I just don’t remember anything,” he says finally. “I really wish I did. Maybe let me see his picture again?”

“Yeah, sure.” I reach into my bag, pull out White’s blown-up DMV photo, hold it out for him. He takes it.

“His credit card records show he was in here a few times,” I say as he studies it. “You really don’t remember him? Anything at all?”

“I mean…” he trails off. “He wasn’t really a regular, and I don’t think he was a talker. He’d just sort of sit and drink.” He pauses. “If I’m even remembering the right guy.” He hands the picture back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. He didn’t really leave an impression on me.”

“So him causing an altercation was unusual?” I ask.

He shrugs, turns up his palms. “Maybe?” he asks.

“Do you remember him ever talking to anyone? Like a man?”

He shakes his head. “No. I have no idea.”

I repress another sigh. Looks like today’s fated to be just as big a suckfest as yesterday. “Well, thank you for your help. And thanks for the soda,” I add, stuffing the picture back in my bag.

“Wait,” he says before I can continue with the rest of the spiel. “Look, maybe I don’t know anything, but you could try across the street.”

“Across the street?” I repeat, glancing in that direction.

“Yeah.” I look back at him. “The guy who runs that junky antique store is really paranoid. Like, kind of crazy.” He leans in conspiratorially, and I find myself leaning closer too. “Truthfully,” he continues, just above a whisper, “I wouldn’t be surprised if our cameras don’t even work. Max had a tiff with the security company a couple years ago and it wouldn’t shock me if he never renewed with anyone. But that guy, if anyone would have footage from three years ago, it’d be him. As if anyone would want to steal his overpriced crap, you know?”

I don’t know. I glance back over, look at the letters spelling out ‘P & W Antiques’ above the door of the opposite store front. If there really is a camera over there facing out, it would almost certainly get some overlap of the bar’s parking lot.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, also quietly.

“Every time I’ve gone in there he follows me around like a hawk. If there’s more than one person there he sits behind his desk and stares at his computer with all the security feeds. One time he even asked me if I’d changed my mind about buying this thing I’d been looking at at the other end of the store.” He scoffs, looking genuinely offended. “I haven’t gone back since.”

For the first time all day I feel the slightest flicker of hope.

“Thanks,” I say at a normal tone, standing up straight again. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Yeah.” He nods and straightens too. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“It’s okay. But if you think of anything else, you have my card.”

“Yeah. I’ll try to think on it some more.”

“That’s all I can ask.” Tossing him a wave, I turn and head for the door. As I exit, a couple more people come in, and I let them pass before walking back into the heat. Once I’m out I pause, slip on my shades as I look around.

Could he have been abducted here, right near where I’m standing? Over in the alley by the bar? Or did the Butcher take him from his parents’ condo? The parking garage? Did he stick a needle in his neck and drag him to his car? Bring him to some basement somewhere to wrap him up in plastic and drive a knife through his chest?

How did he even know? Did the Butcher come here too, extract the story from him between shots of whatever?

Or did he find out some other way? Should I be investigating the fucking probate attorney?

Is there even the slightest chance in hell that this guy’s actually gonna have footage from three years ago?

What if by the end of the day I have a shot of the fucker’s face?

I don’t know how to answer any of those questions, but I guess there’s only one way to find out.

Smoothing back my hair, I head for the curb, check for traffic before jogging across the street.


	33. Up and Down

__

_Up and Down  
_ _Setting: “See-Through”_

* * *

Just shy of two hours later, I’m walking back into the station, a new USB stick in my pants’ pocket, a pleasant, vague feeling of hope alive in my gut. Turns out the bartender was right on two counts— the guy who owns the antique store across the street has indeed been stockpiling footage since he opened in 2002, and he’s also fucking batshit insane. I was surprised at how willing he was to just give me the footage, after I finally got him to shut the fuck up about whatever the hell it was he was talking about. I just had to run up to an electronics store to buy the stick. When I came back he gave me everything I wanted.

So now I’ve got it, for whatever it’s worth: surveillance footage with a partial view of the parking lot for every day Marcus White’s card showed a charge at the bar. Now I just have to hope I find something in them.

I head straight to the briefing room from the elevator. As I approach I find Lundy and Batista in there already. As usual, Lundy’s sitting behind his desk. The detective’s sitting across from him, a folder open in front of him.

“Hey,” I say as I walk in.

“Hey,” Batista echoes, turning around to glance at me.

“Evening,” Lundy says.

I head over to them, surprised to hear an edge in Lundy’s voice. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the zen master have a tone before. “Something up?” I ask, stopping next to Batista.

Batista’s brows arch as he leans back. “Oh, right, I forgot you weren’t here this morning.”

“Here for what?” Now my curiosity’s piqued. Lundy’s making a face.

“I guess last night the garbage guy hit the cooling unit for the tent and broke it,” the detective says. “It ended up cycling hot air all night, totally melted the bodies.”

“Jesus,” I say, taken aback. “How fucked are we?”

“Luckily, not very,” Lundy says. “Most of our swabs and samples weren’t stored over there. Most importantly, the rocks were here.”

Right, the fucking algae. I cross my arms. “Thank god.”

“Yes. This could’ve been a lot worse. But unfortunately the bodies themselves probably won’t be of much help to us now.”

“What’re we doing with them?”

“After talking with Lieutenant LaGuerta and the ME office, we agreed it’d be best to have them sent up to Gainesville to be skeletonized and reexamined.” He rubs his nose. “Just in case we missed something under the soft tissue.”

It takes me a second to remember what’s in Gainesville— the anthropology lab. “Are they gonna hold onto them?” I ask.

He nods. “For the time being.”

I blow out a breath. “Well, can’t say I’ll be sorry to see them go.”

“Me either,” Batista says.

“Still fucking ridiculous though.” I finally plop down into the chair next to him. “I can’t believe anyone would be so careless around a giant, inflatable morgue.”

Batista grunts his agreement.

Lundy makes a sort of what-can-you-do gesture. “And what about your day, Officer Morgan?” he asks.

“Another steaming can of crap-all,” I reply, then smile. “Except…” Letting my voice trail off, I pull the memory stick from my pocket and waggle it in the air. “Got surveillance footage of the bar’s parking lot from the night Marcus White disappeared, and for every other night his cards say he was there.” I stick it back in my pocket, shrug. “Who knows, right?”

“That’s right,” Batista says. “Keep putting out those positive thoughts.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes in Lundy’s direction. “What’s going on with your guns?” I ask instead.

“Two of them got hits to some unsolved homicides,” he says, then adds, “I knew Sota had to be guilty of something.”

“Where?”

“Mostly over in Little Havana. They were Miami Metro cases.” He taps one of the stacks of folders sitting in front of him. “The techs are widening the net, seeing if they get any hits outside of Miami.”

“Got anything to link those cases to Sota besides the guns?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. But I’ve only just started digging.”

I lean back in the chair. “I’ll say this— at least the Butcher’s helping our stats.”

He bobs his head in agreement.

“So what did I interrupt, anyway?” I ask, glancing between him and Lundy.

“We were talking about the Castillo case, actually,” the agent says.

“Oh.” I feel my heart sink a little. “Anything new?”

“Maybe. Detective Batista had an interesting idea earlier.”

“Yeah?” I look at him, part of me not wanting to know.

He nods. “If we’re really assuming this was the Butcher imitating…” He stops, lets his eye contact slip away. “Uh—”

“Brian Moser,” I supply mechanically, not allowing myself to think about it.

“Yeah,” he says. “It made me wonder, how did we even find out about that scene? I couldn’t remember. Turns out it was an anonymous 911 call.”

Some of my discomfort goes away as I guess where this is going. “You think the Butcher might’ve made that call?” I ask.

“I mean, who else would’ve known about it? Assuming you’re right about why he staged Castillo that way, it only makes sense he’d want her discovered while she was still…” he gropes for a word, “fresh.”

I feel a wave of disgust. “Sick fuck.” I purse my lips. “So you got the 911 recording?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“We were just listening to it,” Lundy says.

“You think it’s him?” I ask.

“No idea.” He shrugs. “Want to hear it?”

No. I really don’t. “Sure.”

Nodding, he reaches for his mouse, clicks a couple times. I find myself tensing as an airless kind of static suddenly issues from the monitor’s speakers.

Then, _“911. What’s your emergency?”_

“ _Hello. I need to report a disturbance.”_

A bolt rips through me.

“ _I heard screams coming from a trailer,”_ the ghost continues. _“It’s parked in a salvage yard at 13100 Cairo Lane.”_

“ _Sir, may I ask your name?”_

“ _I’d prefer to remain anonymous.”_

“Turn it off.” I cut it off, panic rising up my throat. I can’t fucking breathe. “Fucking turn it off!”

“… _pay phone—”_

It stops.

I’m on my feet. I don’t remember doing that.

( _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ )

Both of them are staring at me in bewilderment. I suck in air, try to fill my lungs, but they’ve turned to sandbags.

“Shit,” Batista says softly.

( _fucking get a grip_ )

I make an ugly, gravelly sound as I try to force myself back together, try to force myself to speak. “That wasn’t….” I swallow. “I’m sorry.” I back up a step, turn away, try to breathe again. It’s like a thousand fucking mealy worms just hatched in my stomach.

( _god fucking fucking fuck_ )

“Hey, you okay?”

I turn back to find Batista up and standing a couple feet from me. “Yeah,” I say, pulling my hair back and to one side. I exhale. “I just… didn’t expect…” Even though I could say it three seconds ago it seems impossible now.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It never even occurred to me that it might’ve been him who called it in.”

I laugh out of grief. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to _me._ It’s fucking exactly the kind of thing he would do.” I glance at Lundy. He’s up too, and looking at me with some concern. “My fucking fiancé,” I explain acidly, choosing the words specifically to hurt myself.

“I gathered,” he says.

“I guess he received his gift.”

Batista looks uneasily between the two of us, as if trying to decide if he should talk. “Then why report it?” he asks after a beat.

“I dunno.” I shrug. “To jerk the Butcher around?” I draw a breath. “Or maybe he thought it was too good not to share.”

“That would explain why we found her at all,” Batista says. “It was bothering me that the Butcher hid all his victims except her. It seemed out of character to leave her like that for us to find.”

“He probably never expected his private piece to go public,” I say.

“I think this changes things,” Lundy says. His brows are furrowed. “The simpler explanation may be that Brian Moser himself killed her and left her as a message to our killer.”

“He didn’t.” I shake my head.

“What makes you say that?”

“I…” I can’t explain it, suddenly can’t look at him. Shame burns up my chest, sucks the feeling from my limbs. “He didn’t,” I repeat.

There’s quiet for a moment. “Alright,” he says.

I know he doesn’t believe me, not that he has any reason to.

Those mealy worms burrow deeper, start shredding up my intestines. I feel sick.

“I’m sorry,” I say, before the pain can reach critical mass. “I need to process this. Would you mind if I cut out early?”

“No.” Lundy shakes his head. “Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

“Thanks.” I can hear his fucking voice in my ear again. I’m almost as afraid to leave as I am to stay. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You can take the day if you need to.”

I look at Lundy, try to force a sense of stillness. “No, I’ll be fine,” I say. “But thanks.”

They’re both staring at me like I’m moments from implosion. And maybe I am, I don’t know.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I repeat.

“Okay,” he says. “Good night, Officer Morgan.”

“Night, Deb,” Batista says.

Nodding, I turn and walk out of the room. As I go I find myself looking toward Dexter’s office, but I don’t see him over there and his lights are off. I don’t know if he’s coming home tonight.

I fucking hate that that bothers me so much.

I go over to the elevator, stab the down button, but I realize I can’t wait, move for the stairs instead. I can feel that stupid USB stick digging into my leg as I flee down the steps.

And I can hear him following me. Phantom arms around my throat.

“ _Call it an homage.”_

Like fucking Valerie Castillo.

I grit my teeth as I reach the door to the lobby, force myself to breathe before going through it.


	34. Let Go

__

_Let Go  
_ _Setting: “See-Through”_

* * *

“Sir, may I speak with you?”

Lundy looks up at me from his desk, and so do a few of the other cops scattered around the briefing room. I ignore them all as I look at him. As I grip the files in my hand.

“Privately,” I add, before he can reply.

His brows crawl up his forehead, but he nods. “Sure,” he says.

“Thanks.”

Not caring how it looks, I watch him as he gets up, then turn for the door. I don’t say anything as we walk, and he doesn’t either. Maybe he senses my mood. I’ve been avoiding him most of the day, have hardly left my desk and the antique store surveillance footage since this morning’s meeting. But the pressure’s been building since I left last night, and I knew as I sat there, blindly watching the screen, that I don’t have a choice. That I’m not going to be able to push this aside anymore.

I lead Lundy to the only place I can think of where I’m certain no one’s going to interrupt us: Dexter’s little blood room broom closet. Let the door swing wide as I enter, walk to the other wall.

“Could you shut the door?” I ask as I turn. Lundy’s hesitated in the doorway. Any other moment, any other day, I would’ve respected it, would’ve given a shit why, but I passed that point twenty minutes ago. “Please.”

Even though he still looks wary, he does come in, shuts the door quietly behind him. The clean paper roll hanging near it flutters in its breeze.

“Take it,” I say, stepping forward and holding one of the files out.

Lundy looks at me questioningly as he reaches for it, and for a microsecond I can’t let go. Because I still don’t want him to know, still don’t want to say any of what I’m about to say.

Because twenty minutes ago I was standing in the evidence room, face-to-face with fucking Pandora’s box. It was a moment before I could get myself to lift the lid, longer still before I found what I was looking for. When I glanced inside the folder to confirm I felt all the courage I’d mustered disintegrate to powder.

But I took the thing anyway, got the rest of the shit from my desk anyway. It’s way, way too late to try to pull the brakes now.

So I let go.

“What am I looking at?” Lundy asks after he takes it, as he opens it. The blood panel.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” I start, trying to ignore the anxiety lapping at my core. It only worsens when he looks at me again, but I have to keep going. “When I asked Masuka to run the Bay Harbor victims for M-99, I also asked him to look for it in another victim.” I pause for a breath, clarify with a rush of shame, “In me.”

I feel very small as his brows dip. He looks back at the report. “It came back positive?” he says, confused.

“Yeah.” I nod. Steeling myself, I set the folder I’m still gripping on the table, flip it open. “You never looked at the crime scene pictures, did you?” I ask. “From when Brian Moser took me?”

When I glance at him again he’s not looking down. His gaze is still centered on me, boring through me.

The eye contact is searing.

“No,” he says. “It…” he hesitates, “didn’t feel appropriate. Or necessary.”

I nod, swallowing. Feel a rush of respect, and something like gratitude, for the fact that he’s not a fucking voyeur.

And suddenly I know it’s safe to do this. That I’m making the right choice. That maybe I should’ve done this awhile ago.

“Thanks,” I say. “That was… extremely decent of you.” I inhale as I look down. “But I need you to look at them now.”

I can feel his eyes on me for another beat before he finally looks down, as I flip the paperwork aside. My breath hitches at the first picture.

It’s the table.

( _fuck_ )

“Uh…”

I can’t tear my gaze from it, even as I try to speak. It’s like a fucking black hole.

But I hear words coming out of my mouth. “This is, uh… this is where they found me. My brother found me.” I force myself to breathe. “On this table.” The blood has long since retreated from my extremities as I push the picture out, slide it onto the table, start fanning out the rest. Stop when I get to an exterior shot. Stop before I can see Fred Harvey again. I can’t ever look at him again.

Instead I look at Lundy, groping for a thread of support to cling to. And somehow I find it there in his gaze, some of that strength he convinced me might exist somewhere inside me.

“After he took me, after he dragged me out of the trunk, he blindfolded me and took me into this shed,” I say, glancing away from him to tap the picture of it. But I quickly find his eyes again. Hold onto it. “And then he, uh…” I swallow. “He drugged me. When I woke up I was tied to this table.” I touch that picture too, but now I’m searching his gaze, willing him to understand. “He fucking stripped me and wrapped me up in plastic wrap. Slapped duct tape over my mouth.”

His lips part in surprise. He looks back down at the pictures. At all the plastic Dexter cut me out of.

“The blood panel I had Masuka run was from a sample they took from me at the hospital that night. He used M-99 to knock me out.”

When he looks at me he seems to be searching for words. “That can’t be a coincidence,” he says finally.

“No. It can’t be.”

He glances between me and the pictures again. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“I saw the Ice Truck Killer similarities like everyone else, but at first I thought they were just happenstance. Or that I was seeing him under yet another rock.” I pause. “It wasn’t until we got the trace reports back that I knew there was more to it. That’s when I remembered Castillo and I asked Masuka to run the blood tests.”

He leans against the table. “What do you think it means?”

“What do I think it means?” I repeat. I smile in grief, shake my head. “I…” Still shaking my head, I look away, at the paper sheets hanging off the wall. “I think I was the Ice Truck Killer’s Valerie Castillo,” I say to it.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

I look back at him. “When he took me into that garage, just before he stuck that needle in my neck, he said something strange to me. He said he didn’t ‘usually work this way.’” I air quote. “And then he told me to ‘call it an homage to a fellow traveler’ he said he admired.” I push back my hair. “For a long time I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. I wasn’t even sure I didn’t just imagine it, or dream it, or, fuck, I don’t know, misunderstand it. It didn’t make any sense. An homage to what? To who? But then I saw Masuka’s trace report.” I tap the pictures again. “He wasn’t just being creative when he set me up on the table like this. Somehow he knew the Butcher’s MO, and he wanted to replicate it. The same way the Butcher set up Castillo for him.”

“But why would he do that? And why would he do it to you?”

I shrug, as that poisonous thought rises to the surface again. “I think he wanted to prove a point.”

There’s something so incredibly calm and still about the way he’s standing there, yet his gaze goes through me like a razor. “What point?”

“That we’re all the same— killers, whores, cops. We’re all just… meat.” I feel hot as I say it. “When I was tied up at his feet he said he’d been planning it for a long time, and I think he was. I don’t know how long, but it seems like somehow he knew about me even before I’d ever transferred to Homicide. Maybe at first I was just a trophy fuck and a trophy kill, but then after Castillo he might’ve decided to serve me up to the Butcher as some kind of joke. The Butcher goes after killers, so maybe he thought it’d be ironic to carve up a cop for him.”

“That’s a terrible thought.” He glances down at the pictures, then back at me. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine having to live with this.”

I don’t know what to say. I feel sick, but a little relieved too. Because even though I barely know Lundy, for some reason it feels important that he know all this. Like maybe somehow he can tell me how to put back together all this broken shit inside me, or at least how to sweep it out of me.

“And I’m sorry for pushing you so hard to stay on this task force,” he fills my silence. “It was crass of me to overlook how much you must still be suffering from all this. I didn’t think—”

“Don’t apologize for that.” I shake my head, hold up my hand. “As messed up as it sounds, being on this case has done more for me than two months of fucking hand wringing and head shrinking.”

( _and being with you_ )

I push down the thought, unwilling to entertain where it came from. “But I can’t stay on the Castillo investigation. I can’t…” I trail off. “I can’t be blindsided by old sound bytes, can’t see all the details. I don’t want to know this shit. I _can_ _’t_ know it. It’s too much.” Again I feel like I’m pleading with him as I search his gaze. “You were right when you said I have to stop running, but I have to know when to back off too. I can’t keep getting pulled under by this.”

“Of course.” He nods. “I understand.”

“Thanks.” Somehow that was so much easier than I thought it’d be. Slowly, I let go of a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

“Are you alright?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. It was just…” I can’t quite look at him, “I never expected to hear his voice again.”

“I understand.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry.”

I shake my head again. “Don’t be.”

For a moment we both stand here, and when I look at him again I’m so fucking thankful not to find pity in his gaze. But despite the relief I’m finding I very much want to leave, and quickly. Because suddenly I want to confess more to him, to unload more of this shit that I’ve been buried in. I want to ask him why he left me on that table for so goddamn long. Why he called my brother there. Why he risked being caught to go back to his apartment and kill himself in his rack.

Why he didn’t come for me. Why he let me live.

But I know there aren’t any answers he, or anyone living, could give me, and that I need to accept that just as much as I need to remove myself from the Castillo investigation. Otherwise I’ll just keep drowning, over and over.

“Anyway,” I say, exhaling, “that was what I needed to tell you. I don’t know if any of this shit could really help,” I gesture back at the files, “but it’s okay with me if you want to look through it.”

“Do you think there’s anything there I could find that you haven’t already thought about?” he asks.

I feel slightly taken aback by the question, but after a beat I shake my head. “No.”

“Then I don’t need to look at them.” Now he shakes his head, and I feel another wash of gratitude. “But in light of all this I think the connection between our killer and Brian Moser should be looked into. In deference to you, I’ll carry it out privately. Unless something comes out of it, there’s no reason to involve the rest of the task force. Or you, if you don’t want to be.”

That gratitude runs into something sweeter. I was so afraid to talk about this. “I don’t,” I say.

“That’s alright.”

“Thanks.” It doesn’t feel like enough to say that. “Really,” I add. “Thanks for taking this from me.”

He smiles. “I’m glad you came to me.”

A current seems to pass between us. That impulse taps at me again, rolls over in my stomach now that some of the fear has ebbed away. Abruptly, I gather up the pictures, stuff them back into the folder without looking at them, without thinking about them. When I look at him again I feel much closer to okay than I have in a long time, but also a little nervous.

For different reasons.

“I should get back to the tapes,” I say.

He holds out the folder with my blood panel, and I take it from him. “How’s that going?” he asks.

I shrug, sticking it on top of the other file. “As expected. So far I’ve got nothing.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks.” Nodding, I move for the door.

“Debra.” His voice stops me, and I turn, lift my brows at him. “Maybe it’s not my place to say this, but I hope you don’t believe what you said. You’re more than whatever Brian Moser took you for.”

My heart jerks, stings my eyes. I blink, swallow the surge of emotion, but I don’t know what to say. The shrink’s told me that a thousand times, but somehow coming from Lundy it finally seems to mean something. “Thanks,” I say, because it’s all I can think of. Except— “I…” I want to say something else, struggle with the impulse. “Thanks,” I say again, finally. And then I break eye contact with him to open the door and step out.

A short distance down the hall, I pause, halfway wanting to wait for him to come out. As something weird and inappropriate flips below my guts. When he doesn’t appear, I force myself to move on. But even as I reach my desk, even a minute after I sit and see him walk back through the hall and into the briefing room, part of me is still in that room with him. Turning it over.

Because all that anxiety I had is suddenly floating past, and for once his voice is gone. Brian Moser. Even as I look down at the files, even knowing what they contain, I’m surprised to find that I’m okay. Lundy gave me that.

And, somehow, even knowing all this shit that I just dumped on him, he still doesn’t see me as a victim. As some stupid dipshit.

I wonder if it’s even possible that I could learn to feel that way too.

I find myself staring at the files. Hesitantly, I bring the bottom one to the top and open it again. Touch the glossy paper as I look at the knife that so nearly killed me. Close my eyes as I remember waking up to it coming down through the haze, how it didn’t even register until moments after it happened. How close I’d been to dying all over that table, my blood running down to pool on that blue mat.

And then I open my eyes and a drawer, dump the files inside.

Because maybe it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.

And for once maybe I can believe it.


	35. Move On

__

_Move On  
_ _Setting: “See-Through”_

* * *

I pull away the brush, hold my hand up to inspect my nails, sigh at a couple uneven patches and start reapplying polish. To my left Dexter flips a page in whatever book he’s reading, seeps further into the cushions. The TV drones at half volume in the background. I think it’s _The Pelican Brief_ that’s on _,_ but I don’t remember for sure. I haven’t watched more than half a scene since I turned it on.

We’re both schlumped on the couch, dressed and ready to go out soon. Dex is going to meet Rita after her shift at some restaurant down in Brickell, and Gabriel’s picking me up to take me… somewhere in about a half an hour. Hopefully not the same place. I was excited about it earlier, but somehow when I went to join my brother on the couch to do my nails the butterflies died and all the energy got sucked out of me. I suspect it’s Dexter— he’s such a fucking black hole.

“What’re you reading, anyway?” I ask as I check my nails again.

“Hm?” he says after a second.

I repeat the question, deciding that they’re fine.

“Oh.” He glances over at me as I screw the brush back into the bottle. “ _Blood: Collections, Analysis and Interpretation_ ,” he says without having to check the spine. “One of the guys I went to school with co-authored it.”

“Fucking christ does that sound boring,” I laugh, feeling exhausted just processing the title.

He makes an ‘eh’ sound as he shrugs and looks back at the book. I don’t say anything else, just set the bottle on the table and absently shake my hands. I look at the TV as I throw my feet onto the table, but my thoughts quickly slip away from the now.

It’s Saturday. This morning I had my last session with Wheeler, for real this time, and I felt nothing but relief as I walked out of that office. I kept it light and told her about nothing that mattered, mostly just talked about Lundy and the lack of movement on the Butcher investigation, kept far clear of Castillo and the conversation I had to have with Lundy on Thursday. As far as she knows, work has done what therapy and time and distance and endless self-reflection couldn’t— brought me back to some semblance of stability. Hopefully LaGuerta will know it too after receiving her report, if she receives one.

And maybe it’s even true. These last couples nights I’ve actually been able to sleep.

For the most part.

Handing the Castillo investigation over to Lundy helped. Seeing those pictures again didn’t, for as much as I want to pretend otherwise. When I went back to Records to return the ITK file, I only just barely stopped myself from pulling Fred Harvey’s file. It occurred to me as I stood there that I never found out what happened to him or his car, whether or not he had any family, relatives, friends. I don’t know how he died either: I just remember the smell of his blood. I left without looking, but the questions followed me back to my car, and to bed.

I’m not even certain he was dead when Rudy first forced me into that trunk.

Or that that isn’t just a detail I’ve since dreamt.

( _fucking danger Will Robinson)_

I abruptly close that door, clear my throat, and sit up. Look back at the TV. Process absolutely nothing coming out of Denzel Washington’s mouth.

“I think it’s time for me to move out,” I say, randomly, without meaning to.

Dexter looks up at me after a beat, brows dipping. He seems as mildly surprised as I am about what I said. “What?” he says.

“I’ve been thinking about it lately, more and more,” I say, unsure why this is the moment I’m choosing to bring this up. “It’s time for me to move on, and for you to have your place back.” I pause, smile. “And I’m sure you’re as fucking sick of the couch as I am.”

“You’re not wrong.” His tone is dry. “But are you sure you’re ready?”

I shrug. “No. But I need to I trust myself and take a leap of faith. And we both know it’s time.”

“If this is about the other night—”

“No,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “I can’t fucking hide here forever,” I say. “Besides, I miss my own shit, having my own space.”

He’s quiet for a beat. He’s still so far slouched his shoulders are only a couple inches above the couch seat. Then, “Have you already started looking?” he asks.

“A little.” I shrug. “So far zilch. Just a couple view-less rat traps.”

He nods. “Let me know if you want any help.”

“I will.”

Again he falls silent. “Well, I’ll miss having you around, sister,” he says after a second, then smiles slightly. “For the most part.”

I don’t know if that’s a dig at him catching Gabriel and I, or at the general shit mess that’s always trailing me around the apartment. Maybe a mix of both. “Right back at you, brother,” I reply.

“But if you change your mind, I don’t mind if you want to stay a little longer.”

“I would mind though.” I feel slightly warmed by his sentiment. “But thanks. For that, and for everything. You don’t know what it’s meant to me.” I exhale, and my smile fades. “I wouldn’t have gotten through this without you.”

“We’re family,” he says, as if that’s the end of it, and I have a sudden wave of cognitive dissonance, because a year ago I felt like we barely had a relationship.

“Yeah,” I say. “But I’m still grateful.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

We look at each other a moment longer, and then he glances around the apartment, exhales. “I’ve almost forgotten what it was like to have this place clean,” he says.

I sneer at him. “Blow me.”

He grins in that strange way he does, like he’s not totally certain if it’s funny, and I smile again. I’ll miss his dopey fucking face, even if I’ll still be seeing it at work. It’s been incredibly grounding to have him here, to wake up from the level of fucked up my nights have been and be able to sit and talk with him. He’s not any better a conversationalist than he was when we were growing up, when it was just him and me and Dad’s shit piled all over the place and he didn’t know how to comfort me, but now his stoicism is calming rather than infuriating.

But fuck is it time for me to be on my own again.

Neither of us say anything else, and Dex goes back to his book. I try watching the movie, but my thoughts are still seesawing between Fred Harvey and the Butcher investigation, Lundy and the ITK, moving out and hiding here. I think about what a waste of time the parking lot surveillance tapes ended up being, that I had to finally admit it yesterday at the end-of-day meeting— not that everyone else isn’t similarly stymied. I go over the last few conversations I’ve had with Lundy, how fucking thankful I am that even after seeing all that shit he isn’t treating me any differently. He hasn’t said anything about Castillo or Moser since he took over the case, and I haven’t asked. The silence has been as much a relief as it is just to spend time with him lately.

Because he makes me feel safe, whenever we’re alone together. Quells all that horrible shit inside me. Turns the knob down to zero.

My phone suddenly buzzes and lights up, and I look down at it, dislocated from whatever feeling my subconscious is trying to articulate. I reach for it, flip it open as I lean back. “Hello?” I answer.

“Hey, it’s Gabriel.” The connection is crappy. I can’t help but grin at his voice.

“Hey,” I say.

“I’m at the gate. You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” I get up. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Cool. I’m double parked.” He pauses. “Should I be telling you that?”

I snort. “No, hold on while I grab my cuffs.”

There’s dead air. Dexter glances up at me.

“Fucking forget I said that,” I say. He laughs, and it’s chopped up into static. “I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, awesome.”

I click off. Dexter’s still looking at me as I snap the phone closed. “Fuck off,” I tell him preemptively.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says.

“You didn’t have to.” I flush, but grin. Admittedly, despite what I said, the incident Monday night is indeed part of the impetus for my desire to move. “I’ll see you later,” I say. “Tell Rita hi for me.”

“I will.” He watches me as I grab my purse off the table and shove my phone into it, sling it over my shoulder. Then, “Are you coming home tonight?” he asks casually.

I pause, look down at him. Feel another flush. “I don’t know,” I say. “But probably.”

“Okay.” It doesn’t seem like he cares either way.

“Right,” I say, more to myself than to him, before walking into the bathroom to check my reflection. Then I open my purse to make sure my wallet is there. Gum, cigarettes, phone, keys, random sugar packets and receipts. Condoms, shoved way down there.

You know, just in case.

No gun, because I don’t fucking need it.

Badge, because I can’t fucking help it.

I swill mouthwash, spit it out, wipe my mouth, quickly reapply some lip gloss, then head from the bathroom for the front door. “See you later,” I say to Dex as I open it.

“Yeah, see you,” he says as I shut it.

The butterflies are back as I head down the walkway to the stairs, as I cross the path to the gate. Halfway there I spot Gabriel leaning against the call box, partially lit by the dusk and a couple ground lights. Somehow I forgot how attractive he is.

I grin as I approach, lazily push open the gate.

“Hey,” I say, all easy breezy.

He grins back. “Hey.”

We kiss, just for a second, light contact, and my stomach rolls over hopefully. “Ready to go?” he asks when we pull apart.

“Yeah,” I say, running my tongue over my teeth.

Grinning stupidly at each other, we start walking. I think I already see his car, double parked across the street a couple rows down. I forgot that it was a silver sedan.

Just like half the cars in Miami.

My grin fades, but I quickly bury the mote of nervousness, adjust my purse on my shoulder. Take a breath of the hot, briny air.

Decide to just fucking… relax.

 


	36. Another Sip of Espresso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was putting together my outline for this ep, I noticed that the coffee bar marina where Deb and Dex meet in the opening has the same bridge in the background as Coral Cove, Dex’s marina, which Deb and Lundy later check out. A quick check on the Dexter filming locations site confirmed that they did indeed shoot at the same marina for both scenes (Leeward Bay Marina in Wilmington, down in LA). I’m not sure if the opening was set at Coral Cove, since they don’t mention it, but I’m just going to assume it was because it’s slightly more interesting to me that way.
> 
> Also, this'll be the last chapter until either the 28th or the 1st, not sure yet. My holiday plans don't really have room for fic.

__

_Another Sip of Espresso  
_ _Setting: “The Dark Defender”_

* * *

Shaking my head to myself, I watch Dexter’s back as he walks away from the table, take another sip of espresso. The whole brother-sister coffee catch up thing lasted all of five seconds.

I snort.

Yeah, whatever.

I set the Styrofoam cup down, think about grabbing a cigarette from my purse, because I drove all the way out here and I don’t want to leave yet. My brother’s reached his mini van before I’ve decided whether or not to act on the impulse, and he waves at me. I wave back, then watch as he gets in and pulls out of the space, drives out of the lot, turns for the bridge, and disappears into a clump of cars. Take another sip of espresso.

It’s Wednesday morning. Shortly after my run, as I was heading for the shower, Dexter called and asked if I wanted to grab a coffee before work. We haven’t seen each other much the last few days, with him spending his nights at Rita’s and us working non-overlapping investigations. He’s on call today and I don’t need to be at the station until 10, since Lundy’s holding the morning briefing late today, so I agreed to drive out and meet him at Coral Cove. But, typically, we didn’t even get around to thinking about whether or not we were going to order food before he had to go.

I look out at the water.

When I asked him why here of all places, he said he was thinking of taking out his boat for the morning. I’m not sure if he was inviting me along, but I didn’t ask to be included. Because while I can sit here and look at it, I don’t have any desire to go out on that dock, let alone get on a boat again, or go out on the water.

The impulse finally wins over. I reach into my bag, locate the box and the lighter, pull out a cigarette and light up. Blow smoke as I adjust in my seat.

_My little sister, the cuddler._

I purse my lips.

I wasn’t bullshitting Dexter. I’ve put the brakes on with Gabriel for several reasons, only a few of which I can actually articulate. For one, I’m still not sure what we’re doing or why. Saturday’s date was fun and we’ve spent a couple nights together since, at his place and my brother’s, but I haven’t let us get any farther than groping on the couch. I’m half waiting for him to get impatient with me and admit some ulterior motive, that he just sees me as the Ice Truck Killer’s bitch, but so far nothing. He hasn’t mentioned Moser or what I said that night I cuffed him to the bed, or asked about my twitchiness, but I can’t believe it, or something worse, isn’t coming. Probably because the last several guys I’ve been with turned out to be such total assholes— my serial killer fiancé aside.

I don’t know.

I blow more smoke, drink my rapidly cooling espresso.

But tonight he asked if I wanted to stay over, and I said yes. Because I want to trust him. Because I want to believe he’s been respectful of my wishes because he’s a nice guy and not just because he sees me as some kind of trophy.

And because I really, truly, do want to fuck around with him again.

I’ve still got those fucking condoms in my purse.

I drain the cup and set it down, suck on the cigarette to fill the void.

And, of course, there are those other reasons, the ones I keep shoving down.

My thoughts drift back to last night. I barely remember what we were talking about before it devolved. Something about him taking his cousins camping on the beach in El Salvador and how the mosquitoes ate them all alive. By the end of it I couldn’t listen to another word, couldn’t take it anymore. Because I wanted him.

I initiated, but for the first time I let him on top of me, surrendered that bit of control. It scared the shit out of me, but I pulled him closer anyway, let him touch me, helped him touch me, guided his hands and mouth along. Got him out of his shirt before helping him get through mine. I started to feel safe as we kissed, as everything faded to a pleasant, red haze.

But something happened. Something snapped, and suddenly I was too afraid. Because as his fingers traveled south, even as I responded, even as I asked him to, I realized how vulnerable I was. I _felt_ it. The second he opened my pants, that fear pierced my chest like a volt, made me instantly sick. I was shaking when I pushed him off me, and I was fucking terrified. I thought I was gonna puke all over his floor. Thankfully, didn’t.

I cursed myself the whole drive home. I didn’t tell him what was wrong, what I felt, why I had to go. I didn’t want him to know, didn’t want to admit it. I still don’t.

But tonight…

I reach for the cup again, remember as I lift it that it’s empty. Sigh as I set it down, pull on the cigarette again.

Tonight, I hope…

Maybe.

I don’t know. I don’t want to think about what happened anymore.

I tap ash off the cigarette.

Meanwhile, we’re still nowhere with the Butcher investigation. I’ve spent the week going over Gruber and White’s lives with a fine-toothed comb, looking for security tapes and associates and whatever else I can think of. Went as far as tracking down the patrol cops who worked White’s parents’ crash scene and their incident reports, as well as talking to the probate attorney, found absolutely nothing. I still can’t figure out how the Butcher even knew to target White, and it’s annoying the crap out of me. As far as I can tell, the only person who suspected White of anything was his sister.

Who knows, maybe she’s the Butcher.

I take one last pull, then drop the butt on the ground, grind it out. I think about getting another espresso as I look back out at the marina, but maybe I want another cigarette instead.

Or maybe I don’t. Because I shouldn’t.

I stop myself, barely, push my sunglasses back up my nose. Force my thoughts away from my bag.

And land, inevitably, back on the ITK.

Tomorrow it’ll be a week since I handed the Castillo investigation over to Lundy, and he still hasn’t breathed a word of it. I’m choosing to believe it’s because there’s nothing there, and I haven’t had any desire to ask for confirmation. It’s been a relief not having to think or hear or talk about it. I’ve been over what Rudy said more times than I could even estimate, and I still don’t know if I believe he knew the Butcher personally, that I was meant to be anything more than a Christmas gift. But maybe it’s just my wishful thinking that Lundy won’t find anything as he digs into the ITK.

I don’t know.

And it doesn’t matter.

I exhale, check my watch. I’ve still got forever and I’m a little hungry.

So I get up, stretch my back, grab my purse off the chair and throw it over my shoulder. I pause as I turn for the coffee shop, as it occurs to me that I’m going to have to walk down to the dock to get to it, and it’s so intolerably stupid it instantly pisses me off.

Because I can’t let it scare me. It _doesn’t_ scare me. I’m getting another espresso and an omelet and some fucking bacon and I’m going to look out at the inlet as I eat.

And probably have another ten cigarettes.

And then I’m going to work.

Pushing my hair back, I head for the ramp to have my damn breakfast on the marina, PTSD be fucking damned.

 


	37. 1:00

__

_1:00  
_ _Setting: “The Dark Defender”_

* * *

I drop my sock on the dock as I dip my foot into the water, and I glance at Lundy, then away again. He’s right: the water’s a relief. It’s really fucking humid today.

And I feel a calm settle over me, siphon away the panic that was building in my core. When we arrived here, as I stepped onto the dock, I flashed back to that little lit walkway Rudy constructed for me, to how happily, and blindly, I walked onto that boat. To him putting that fucking ring on my finger. For a microsecond I forgot where I was, and why, as reality dissolved around me. Lundy broke me out of it when he asked me what was wrong, and in that moment I was too confused to know. I felt thoroughly unnerved as I told him it was nothing and followed him out here, as the world dribbled back into focus.

Yet I was here yesterday, and I was fine. I had my breakfast on the other end of the marina, at a table a couple yards off the water. I sat there for forty minutes, just appreciating that I could finally do it. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me today.

Then again that was before I knew that our serial killer might have his boat moored here.

And that was when I still had hope for last night.

I exhale, wanting a distraction, start looking around for the _Slice of Life_ , but my brother’s slip’s all the way down at the furthest end of the dock, and I can’t see it from here. Oh, well.

“You said your dad kept his boat here?” Lundy asks suddenly. I don’t know how long we’ve sat in silence. Maybe only a minute.

“Yeah.” I glance back at him, then swivel to point behind us. “It used to be moored down there somewhere, if I remember.” I snort softly. “It was called _Lazy Sun-Days._ I think Mom named it.” I go silent as I prop my palm back against the wood, look away. The memories are bittersweet.

“Spend a lot of time on it growing up?”

When I look back at him he’s gazing at me with interest, as he pulls what looks like a bag of trail mix out of his paper sack. “Yeah. I guess.” I shrug. “Dad spent more time out here with Dex than with me though.”

He ignores my barb, or maybe he doesn’t notice it. “What’d you do?” he asks, pouring a handful of the mix into his hand.

“I don’t know.” I glance away, out at the bay, at all the sail boats, at the shoreline of Indian Creek. “Sometimes we went up the canal or out to the ocean, went fishing, went swimming.” I smile. “Mom used to lay out on the deck and chain smoke and read magazines while she tanned. She had this hat…” I gesture toward my head, but when I look at him it draws me out of the memory, and I feel a little hollow for it. “I don’t know. It was a long time ago.” I’m not smiling anymore. “After Mom died more and more the boat started feeling like a father-son thing, and I stopped going.” Like pretty much everything else.

I sigh, but keep the thought private. Because I’m too old and Dad’s too dead to still be bitter about that.

Though from the way Lundy’s looking at me, I think he caught my drift anyway. “Do either of you still have the boat?”

I shake my head. “It was barely new in the 70s. Dexter held onto it for a long time, but eventually even his analness wasn’t enough to keep it usable. I think he was planning to restore it before he gave up and got rid of it, ended up getting a new boat instead. That was several years ago now.” I think. “I was still on patrol, so probably 2002 or something.”

He fishes around in his hand, extracts an M&M. “Do you ever go out boating with him?” he asks, then eats it.

I shake my head again. “Not in a long time. I’ve probably only been on it five or six times since he got it.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I never really think about it, and Dex isn’t exactly prone to spontaneous invitations. I think his boat is like his little sanctuary.” As is his apartment, which I’ve thoroughly invaded.

Despite the fucked-up circumstances, I get a perverse sense of pleasure from the thought, because deep down I’m apparently still ten years old, giggling as I wrecked my brother’s carefully constructed spaces.

I don’t know who used to get more pissed off about that: Dad or Dex…

“What about you, Agent Lundy?” I ask as I throw my hair back behind my shoulders, not wanting to think about that. “Your dad take you boating when you were a kid?”

“Yes.” He smiles in that thin way of his. “He used to take my brother and I on camping trips every summer. My mother never had much of an interest in nature, so she left us to it.”

I didn’t know he had a brother. I file that away. “How long would you go for?”

He shrugs. “A week or two, here and there. We’d spend all day fishing or hiking around, then cook up what we caught.”

I wonder what he was like then, what his dad was like. It’s hard to imagine him not in wool. “Sounds nice,” I say.

“It was,” he says. “I was lucky to have that kind of time with my father. He was always happiest when he was out on his boat.”

“Mine too.” Not that I was invited out enough to experience it .

Again I push the thought down. “Got a boat back in Washington?” I ask.

“Hardly.” He smiles, but less happily. “Not anymore, anyway. These days if it doesn’t fit into two suitcases, it’s not coming with me. I miss my weekend fishing trips though.”

I think of the mountain of random shit I’ve accumulated over the years that’s currently sitting in a storage unit a couple miles from here, and I think of Lundy hopping between airports with nothing but a pile of suits and two changes of shoes, and maybe a couple photographs. It makes me oddly sad. “But you have a house or something back home, right?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’ve been renting out my house for a couple years now. I don’t spend enough time in DC to maintain the upkeep.” He eats the rest of the trail mix in his palm, then reaches for the bag again, pours out another handful. “Want some?” he asks, offering it.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

He nods and sets the bag back onto the dock, looks out at the water as he munches.

I look away from him too, though I don’t want to. Watch a yacht as it speeds for the causeway. I want to ask him more, probe a little deeper into his life, into whatever that sadness is I keep feeling under the layers of Mr. Serenity, but I keep my mouth shut. Because even if it was my business, I have a feeling he’d just evade my questions, like he usually does.

Because I think he lost his wife, and I think there was a whole life he had to leave behind after she was gone. And I wonder sometimes if maybe he recognized my running because he’s been doing the same since she died, chasing serial killers from city to city.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks, a little while after the boat’s disappeared under the bridge. He’s still eating the trail mix.

“Better,” I answer honestly, then take a breath. “Thanks for making me…” I grope for a word. I don’t know. “Stop.”

He smiles. “No problem.”

“What about you?” I ask. “Feel any cooler?”

“No.” He shakes his head, makes a face. “Even the water’s hot here.”

I snort. “Your fault for wearing a three-piece suit in Miami.”

“I’m an FBI agent. It’s all a part of the mystique.”

“If you fucking say so.”

He laughs softly, eats more of the trail mix.

And now that I’m looking at him again I want to try to phrase a question, because I find him as interesting as he is impenetrable, but he speaks before I can. “So tell me about this boyfriend of yours,” he says.

I bark a laugh, surprised by the change in direction. “What do you want to know?” I ask.

He sets the baggie down. It’s now mostly empty, besides a pile of oats and raisins at the bottom. “His name.”

“Gabriel,” I say. I’m still smiling, though I don’t know whether it’s because I’m thinking of him or because I’m telling Lundy.

“Last name?”

My brows pinch. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just being nosey.”

“Bosque,” I answer, trying to find a reason on his face, but Lundy’s expression is as equable as ever: smooth as the fucking bay.

“Where’s he from?”

“Homestead, like 50 miles south of here. His family’s from El Salvador.”

“So he’s a local.”

“Yeah.” I’m still studying him. “Another happy fucking Floridian.”

He smiles, and I find myself wishing all the more that I could pry open his head and hear his thoughts.

“What’s with all the questions?” I ask. “Or are you looking to go double on him?”

“I told you. I’m just being nosey.” His tone is perfectly innocent, and I don’t know how to interpret it.

Shaking my head, I glance away, squint against the sun. My foot’s starting to fall asleep, so I sit up, wince as I lay my leg flat against the dock, thunk my other foot back into the water.

But now that the topic’s broached, and now that I’m looking away from him, I find myself wanting to say more. Because for some reason whenever I talk to Lundy I almost feel like I could tell him anything. “It’s strange,” I say, “seeing someone after what happened to me. I feel like I’m holding my breath, waiting for him to transform into a gargoyle or something.”

“And has he?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.” I glance at him, then away again. “I made up an excuse to go back to his place after our first date and I ended up sweeping it when he went to the bathroom, just to assure myself there wasn’t another industrial freezer hidden in his kitchen. No surprise there was nothing there. But I couldn’t stop myself from digging through his stuff again last night.”

Lundy’s quiet, and I look back at him after a beat. “Do you trust him anymore now that you haven’t found anything?” he asks.

I don’t even have to think about it. “No,” I say.

“Is there anything he could do to prove to you that he’s not whatever you suspect him of being?”

Again I don’t have to think. “No,” I repeat, feeling a little defeated about it.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, calmly, “Give it time,” he says. He reaches for the deli paper with his sandwich in it, takes out the other half. “If you don’t mind the advice,” he adds.

“Yeah,” I say, letting out a breath. “You’re probably right.”

He smiles at me before crumpling the paper, then starts working through the sandwich. With its damn crust-less bread.

As he eats I can’t help but imagine him carefully cutting off the crusts and dividing it along the diagonal, as he stands in some spartan, FBI-standard-issued hotel room listening to like NPR or PBS or something. Packing himself a lunch for work. I wonder if it’s accurate and, if it is, how long he’s been like that. Maybe forever.

“What about you?” I ask eventually, after he’s gotten halfway through it. “Got anymore social appointments on your calendar?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Thankfully I don’t have anyone else here playing matchmaker for me.”

I want to ask him about his wife again, but can’t, decide to make a joke instead. “What, you mean you’re not on your way to go meet that yogi master?”

He makes a face. “No.”

I laugh and he snorts, takes another bite. And then we lapse back into silence. I start absently massaging a knot in my shin, as my thoughts float in and out of focus.

Last night. Gabriel.

We never did manage to get beyond the cuddle phase, despite my intentions. I laid awake for over an hour after we stopped, after I stopped it, eventually couldn’t keep myself from rummaging through his shit looking for— what? I don’t know. Another woman’s things? Piles of bath salts? His little serial killer black book? And of course he fucking caught me.

And I finally brought up the Ice Truck Killer. He said he’d never heard of him. Didn’t ask me anything else about him, last night or this morning before I left for work. I don’t know if I believe him, but I don’t know why he’d lie about it either. I don’t know if I’m just being a self-absorbed, paranoid sack of shit with him, or why he’s putting up with it. I can’t help wondering what he wants.

Beside me, Lundy finishes his sandwich, lets his hands settle back on his lap.

I don’t know. I’m having dinner with him tonight. If he doesn’t bring it up, I’m just not going to fucking talk about it. Even if he does bring it up, I’m just not going to fucking talk about it.

I stop massaging my leg, take a breath of muggy air.

I wonder if this really is the marina where the Butcher keeps his boat. Wonder if I could’ve been having breakfast with him on the dock somewhere nearby. Or if maybe he’s got a house or a condo somewhere close by with a private slip. It’s disturbing to think that Dexter could’ve run into him here, especially with his penchant for going out on the water at night. I should talk to him about it.

Then again he’d probably brush me off. If I told him how relatively wide the net the algae threw ended up being, I’m sure he’d tell me he’d have to move his boat down to the Everglades to be sure he wouldn’t run into him on the water.

That doesn’t really make me feel any better about it though.

I pull up my knee, exhale.

Since we’re not talking anymore, I’m starting to get impatient.

And, frankly, hungry. Gabriel made me a protein shake for breakfast, but it’s long since digested. I wasn’t kidding about that pork sandwich…

“I can sense your tension from here.”

I look over at Lundy, instantly feeling somewhere between nettled and amused. “Are we ever gonna get going?” I ask.

He glances at me, then checks his wrist. “It’s been thirteen minutes, Officer Morgan,” he says.

I feel a tick of exasperation. “How long do we have to sit here like this?”

He’s back to looking out at the water. “I don’t know,” he says after a beat, as if he really has to think about it.

My mouth opens as I look at him, several responses coming to mind. Eventually I let them all go with a sigh. “What if I went to the guy in charge of the marina and started talking to him while you enjoy the rest of your lunch?”

When he looks at me again there’s something soft in his gaze that almost makes me regret what I just said. “Go ahead.”

But it’s not quite enough to make me stay. “Okay,” I say.

I pull my foot up from the water, realize as I reach for it that I can’t exactly put my sock on yet. Feel somewhat defeated as I roll back on my haunches. Meanwhile Lundy hasn’t moved, is still staring serenely out at the bay.

“Have you always been like this?” I find myself asking, as I fruitlessly try to wipe some of the wet off with my hands.

“No.”

I stop and look at him, slightly surprised by his frankness.

“It took a long time for me to realize the importance of making sure to take some time for oneself.”

Again I feel the pull of some deep, internal magnetism. “What if I don’t like what I feel when I’m alone with myself?” I ask quietly, before I can stop myself.

“Then I’d say it’s all the more important.”

I almost want to put my foot back in the water, let him convince me to try his meditation, or whatever the fuck it is he’s doing, but, “I can’t,” I say. “Not right now, anyway.”

“I can respect that.”

“Thanks.” And even though my foot still isn’t any drier than it was thirty seconds ago, I shove it into the sock, grab my boot and shove that on too, zip it up. Push to my feet. Pull my pant leg over the boot and smooth it out.

“Alright, I’ll be down the dock,” I say as I straighten.

He nods. “I’ll catch up with you in seventeen minutes.”

I nod too, and he looks back at the water. I follow his eye line, at the dollop of tree-covered land sitting in the bay between here and Indian Creek, or maybe at the skyline of Miami Beach from way beyond it. Wonder what he’s thinking about, or if he’s even thinking about anything at all. Wonder what that would be like, and if I’ll ever know, ever be able to come to some revelation about inner peace like he clearly has.

And then I shake my head and turn to walk down the dock. Leave him to sit there, as my foot starts to itch from all the moisture my sock is absorbing.


	38. Fuck

__

_Fuck  
_ _Setting: “The Dark Defender”_

* * *

I can’t believe it. That fucking _asshole._

And I didn’t even fucking see it. I am the most oblivious fucking sack of dog shit in the entire fucking world.

I climb inside my car and slam the door, force the key into the ignition and yank it over. I’m so angry I can’t see straight. The world outside the windshield seems to run like paint as I glance outside, focus on the trunk of a palm tree sitting in front of the space.

A fresh peal of rage thunders through me as I swipe at my eyes, thankfully come back with nothing. At least I’m not fucking crying.

“ _Motherfucking fuck…”_ I hiss.

I check behind me, then pull out, head for the highway. It’s not until I get to the mouth of the complex that I remember I don’t know where I’m going. I stop, glare at the road, try to fucking think.

I could go back to Dexter’s place, but he’s not home tonight, and as worked up as I am I don’t know that it’s safe for me to be there alone. I don’t know that it’s safe for me to try to sleep. Behind all the rage I can taste the sour notes of fear, and I think if I go back there, if I let myself sit on it, it’s going to devolve into a panic attack.

Because I let him fucking touch me. Because I was starting to allow myself to trust him, was forcing myself to push through all the shit holding me back so I could build some kind of connection, pretend I’m an actual human being again, and he was just using me. He wasn’t being kind or patient. He was just trying to get me to lower my guard. He was preying on me and I didn’t have a fucking _inkling._

_Again._

_The Ice Princess._

Fuck me. Drill a fucking hole in my head and fuck me dead.

It’s no fucking wonder Moser took me hook, line, and sinker, no wonder he was able to string me along so fucking long. He saw what a desperate, pathetic fucking asshole I am, and he couldn’t help himself.

Now I am close to tears. It makes me even angrier.

A sound like an angry cat escapes me as I dig my fingernails into my forehead.

No, I can’t go home. But I don’t know where else to go. I don’t want to be out, don’t want to be around anyone.

And I need to fucking… I don’t know. Do something.

I exhale, slide my hands back, smooth my hair behind my ears. Swallow as I look out at the road.

Work. I’ll go the station. No one’s gonna be there, this late on a Thursday. It’s safe there. And maybe if I do something productive, I’ll be able to calm down enough to go home later. I just need to get out of this loop.

And even if I can’t, worst comes to worst, I can find somewhere to sleep there. Set an alarm, curl up on LaGuerta’s couch for a couple hours.

Wouldn’t that be fun to explain…

Fucking whatever.

I hit the gas and turn right, immediately move to pass some asshole going like 20 under in the left lane. Battle down the impulse to make a rude gesture in his direction as I go.

But I already feel a little calmer, as I get further and further from his apartment. As I skip around the lanes, weave between other cars like the asshole Beemer owner I am.

I just don’t understand how I didn’t see it, how he hid it so well. When I mentioned the Ice Truck Killer yesterday he didn’t even blink. He hasn’t said a _word_ about him. Yet he’s already in talks with a publisher? He’s already got a manuscript to send to them? How is that even possible? It’s been three months since Moser tried to kill me. It’s barely been a week since we slept together. When did we first meet? Like a month ago?

Has he been stalking me?

Was he already writing a book about the ITK when he met me? Did he decide fucking me would make for a great postscript?

_How the fuck didn’t I see this?_

( _“You know the one thing I’ve been dying to ask you?”_ )

And suddenly I feel his breath in my ear.

And a shudder rolls up my back.

( _“How did you not know who I was?”_ )

A hint of menthol.

As his arms tightened around my throat.

As I dimly realized what was happening, as it clicked into place.

That something was very, very wrong.

( _“I think a real cop would at least have a sense that she was in the presence of the person she was hunting, right?”_ )

( _“You’re hurting me!”_ )

“ _Fuck! Fuck!”_

I bang my hand against the wheel, electrified by the memory of my own voice.

No. I can’t fucking go there again. I can’t. I can’t let myself. I’m going to end up plowing into the divider. Or into another car.

( _maybe it would be better_ )

( _shut the fuck up_ )

This isn’t going to happen tonight.

I roll down the window, reach over and feel around for a cigarette and a lighter in the center console, come up with both.

Light up.

Focus on the road as we all slow for a light. On the bumper of the Prius in front of me. It’s covered with stickers.

_Hybrid cars: So many miles. So little gas._

_How many Iraqi children did we kill today?_

_IMPEACH BUSH_

I look away, already forgetting what they said. Take a pull on the cancer stick.

It’s helping.

Sort of.

I blow smoke out the window. Somebody nearby is running their bass, and it occurs to me that I should put my radio on or something. But I can’t get myself to reach over and press the knob.

I’d rather stew in my thoughts.

Go over every microsecond of our dates, of the time we spent together, trying to find whatever I missed.

But I can’t think of anything. He’s seemed so… normal. Nice. Shallow as a fucking bedpan, but in a pleasant way.

At least with Rudy when I think back, when I let myself think back, I can see some of the flags I missed or ignored or didn’t care about, whatever it was that I was doing. I can’t think of one weird question or action from Gabriel. If anything, he’s been remarkably uninterested in the cause of my obvious PTSD.

It just doesn’t make _sense._

I exhale more smoke as I turn onto Biscayne Boulevard, immediately merge over to the left lane.

I must really be fucking retarded. Or a fucking magnet for sociopaths. Or both.

I don’t know.

I don’t know what to do.

I try to think about something else. Work. Whatever the hell it is I’m gonna do when I get there. I’m not sure what there even is. I’ve practically given up on the White and Gruber investigations.

I remember Coral Cove and the afternoon I spent with Lundy, my idea about checking rental logs that he promptly shot down. Because he was right. But that didn’t stop me from requesting logs from Turkey Creek and Sunset Keys, both of which do have boats for rent. I didn’t have a chance to start looking through what the marinas emailed me before I left for the night, so I’ve got at least that much waiting for me to deal with when I get there.

I don’t know if I find that comforting or not.

I tap some ash into an empty cup sitting in the cup holder, lean my wrist against the wheel.

Find myself thinking about Gabriel, going over it all again.

I don’t stop myself. But within minutes it’s already driving me back toward rage that I can’t think of a single thing. He hasn’t done _anything_. That I’ve caught, anyway.

Besides those goddamn emails.

The cigarette’s down to a nub. I suck on it one last time before dropping it in the cup.

_The Ice Princess._

_Yo, Mrs. Ice Truck Killer…_

( _“Will you marry me?”_ )

I set my teeth, reach for another cigarette. After lighting up and tossing the Bic back into the center compartment, I finally reach over and hit the button for the radio, turn it way the fuck up, until it drowns away the sound bytes.

Because I can’t fucking take it anymore.


	39. The Ice Princess

__

_The Ice Princess  
_ _Setting: “The Dark Defender”_

* * *

After I pull into the space, I just sit here, run my fingernail along the seam in the gearshift. Even with the AC blasting, it’s only slightly cooler in here than on the surface of Venus. Maybe I need to have the coolant changed.

A thought of Sean passes, fleetingly, through my head. My brows pinch.

The fucker.

I make no effort to hold onto it, as embarrassment and annoyance squirm up my guts. As I go back to trying to predict how this is going to go.

But I’m sick of going over it, and at this point if I want to do this, I’m going to just have to do it. Right now.

So I crack the windows, kill the engine, step out of the car. Let out a breath as the air envelopes me like a pile of hot, wet fleece blankets. Start walking purposefully for the complex.

I just got off work. I came here straight from the station, because that’s what I said I’d do when I talked to Gabriel last night. He said he’d be home all day after 3, so I told him I’d be here by 6.

God, that conversation.

I called him last night, after I left Lundy, as I was sitting in the parking lot wanting to kill myself. I was surprised he answered. I’d really thought I’d fucked this so thoroughly and irrevocably that he’d never want to have anything to do with me again, that I might have to switch gyms or possibly flee the country just to outrun what a hysterical piece of shit I was, what a fool I made of myself. In his shoes I sure as shit wouldn’t have picked up the phone.

Yet he did, and he accepted my apology. And then he agreed to a talk. So here I am.

I told Lundy about it before I left the station, and he more or less said he told me so. The impulse was to say something flippant back, but instead I just said thanks. I’m not sure I would’ve reached out if he hadn’t brought me back to earth, given me a bit of hope.

I reach the stairs.

Gabriel has a nice place, I find myself thinking, in this strange, disconnected way, as I head up them. That part of me that can’t dwell on what I’m doing. I’ve got an appointment to check out another place tomorrow.

The exterior of this complex looks like piles of concrete shoe boxes, but he’s got great fucking windows. And a balcony. And a rec center. I wonder what he pays in rent.

Now that’s the thought that I’m caught on as I reach his door and go to hit the buzzer.

I wonder if it includes utilities.

I pause before pressing the button, just for a second. Eventually get myself to stab the thing.

What the fuck am I doing here?

The door opens, and suddenly he’s standing there, wearing a slate-blue button down that just barely clings to him, only a little, perfectly tight around the chest. All those stupid thoughts fall away, along with all the rest of them. “Hi,” I say. Stupidly.

( _stupidstupidstupid_ )

“Hey, Deb,” he says, leaning against the frame. Half-smiling.

Good sign? “Thanks for seeing me,” I say, awkwardly. “I’m really sorry about last night. I…” I stop, unsure what I want to say. I thought I knew. “It’s been a motherfucker of a couple of months,” I continue as I meet his gaze, trying to express some of that exhaustion. “But you’ve been so great to me. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

His eyes flick over me for a second, and then he relaxes, gets off the frame. “Wanna come in?” he asks.

I hesitate, and I feel a pellet of hatred explode inside me. That for some fucking reason I _still_ don’t trust him. “Yeah,” I say. Because I do. I really, really do.

“Come on.” He nods toward his apartment as he steps aside, and I move past him, walk through the threshold. For a fraction of a demented moment, I half expect him to try to bash my skull in or something, but instead he just reaches over, taps the door closed behind me.

Another surge of rage, and shame.

Because I’m so wrong about him. Because I’ve never had fear like this. Ever, in my life. And I can’t fucking stand it.

“Want something to drink?” he asks as we walk into the living room.

“Got any beer?” I ask hopefully.

He snorts. “Do I have beer?” he repeats with his mumbly voice. “Sit. I’ll grab a couple bottles.”

Bring the whole box, I almost suggest, but don’t. Instead I take his advice, head to the couch and take a seat on my foot, land awkwardly on my heel. I ease off it. Impulsively grab a pillow and set it on my lap, squeeze it to my chest.

Within moments he comes back around the bar, and he holds one of the bottles out as he reaches me. It’s already open. After I take it, he plops down next me, and I draw my other leg up as I turn to face him. Take a drink. Breathe a sigh of relief.

“This is good,” I say, drinking more, then glancing at the label. It looks like some craft IPA logo, apparently from somewhere up in Tampa. Dex and I almost never waver from buying our usual shit from Publix, so it’s a nice change.

“Thanks,” he says. He drinks too. “It’s from that beer market in Edgewater.”

“I think I know the place,” I say honestly, though I don’t expend the energy to try to remember for sure.

An awkward beat passes where neither of us talk, but we both drink. I desperately want to chug the bottle, just to escape the shame swirling inside me, so to stop myself I shove the pillow up under my armpit, set the beer on my knee. Feel it sweat through my pants.

“So you said you wanted to talk,” Gabriel prompts after awhile of this.

I feel so embarrassed as I meet his eyes again, but I’m glad to find he’s looking at me not much differently than he usually does, just with a slight note of curiosity. “Yeah, I did,” I say. I glance away, find his enormous collection of CDs in the shelf on the opposite wall, just beside the TV. “I should’ve been more upfront with you,” I continue after a second, looking back at him. “I’ve got PTSD. Bad. It’s been getting better, but…” I trail off, shrug kind of helplessly.

“Because of this Ice Truck Killer guy?” he asks. Almost flippantly.

“Yeah.” I search him, still amazed he doesn’t know who he’s talking about. “You’ve really never heard of him?” I have to ask. “You don’t know what happened to me?”

“I really haven’t.” He reaches over and takes my hand, the one that’s not wrapped around the beer bottle. I don’t pull away. “But I’d like to know, if you want to tell me about it.”

His grip is soft as he rubs my palm. I find myself looking down at his fingers, as I try to think of how to even explain it. Fragments of how I’d imagined this conversation going pop into my head, but none of them seem useful. The truth is I don’t want to tell him about it. I’m afraid of how he’ll look at me, that he’ll let go of my hand. “He was a serial killer,” I say eventually, as I look back at him. “He hired prostitutes, then killed them when he got them back to his place, cut them into pieces and left them in piles around the city. He killed at least twelve people, that we know of. I was one of the cops working the case.”

I stop. I still don’t know how to say the rest of it, even though I’ve gone over it a hundred times today, and a hundred thousand more since it happened. “I met him at the hospital,” I say after a second. “He worked there. One of his victims survived. I found him in the basement of a condemned hospital, with his arm and leg sawed off. He made him his fucking prosthetics.” I shake my head, disgusted by it. I can’t look at Gabriel at all now. “Of course, I didn’t know who he was. When we talked at the hospital I thought he was just…” My stomach drops, and I feel a little sick. “I don’t know. Just a guy. He asked me out and I said yes.” Or did I ask him? I can’t remember anymore, and I don’t want to.

I reclaim my hand, hug the pillow. Take a drink of beer. For a long time I don’t say anything, don’t look at him. My gaze is focused on a print on his wall of some cityscape. It’s slightly crooked, and now that I’ve noticed that it bothers me. I wonder how long it’s been like that, why I didn’t see it last night.

I take another gulp of beer.

“How did you find out who he was?” Gabriel asks, when I don’t go on.

I laugh shortly, and without humor. “He fucking told me.” I glance at him, but I can’t stand to look at him. Drink more beer. “I don’t know what triggered it. Maybe it was because the noose was closing in on the investigation and he knew it. Or maybe he was just sick of the charade. I don’t know. I’ll never know.” I drain the beer. “After he told me he knocked me out, shoved me in a trunk and took me to a house somewhere up north.” I can’t mention Fred Harvey, or the time I spent tied up in that fucking life raft, staring at the water, trying to will myself to roll overboard. To drown in the bay, because it was better than letting him have me. “He would’ve killed me— he almost killed me —but my brother and the rest of the station got there first.” I fiddle with the empty bottle. “They saved my life.”

Gabriel’s silent for a moment or two, and I don’t look away from the bottle. I have this vague hope that if I stare at it long enough I’ll will more beer into existence.

“What happened to him?” he asks finally.

“He’s dead,” I say, and something very small inside me seems to crumple. “He killed himself that night, after he...” I trail off, “after they saved me.”

There’s silence again. I don’t look up from the bottle.

He breaks it, after awhile. “Did he hurt you?” he asks.

“No.” I give up on the beer, meet his eyes again. My tongue feels thick. I could tell him more, color in every lurid, fucked-up detail, but I don’t want him to know. When he touches me I don’t want him to see me lying nude and helpless on Rudy’s table. I don’t want him to imagine him undressing me on that blue mat.

“I’m just… fucked up,” I say.

Again he’s quiet, seeming to be lost for words. “I’m really sorry,” he says finally. “I…” He stops, obviously struggling.

“I didn’t want to dump all this shit on you,” I say, to save him. “If it’s too much for you, it’s okay. I can go. I don’t expect you to want to deal with this.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, then makes a move like he wants to reach out for me, but stops himself. “It’s okay. Really. I’m glad you told me. That… explains a lot.”

I search his face for a second. It’s wrong that all I can wonder is what he wants from me. “Thanks,” I say, instead of that, because I must be wrong. Because he’s given me nothing but reasons to think otherwise.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks. “To make it easier?”

I smile slightly, relieved he doesn’t want to shove me out the door. “I could use another beer,” I say, exhaling, knowing I didn’t quite hit the levity I was aiming for. “And maybe then you can just… sit with me?”

He snorts, smiles back. “I can do that,” he says, but then pauses. “But first I wanted to tell you something too, or show you something. If you’ll give me a second.”

I blink, unsure what he’s talking about. I’m still caught halfway between here and that garage. “Yeah, sure,” I say, even though I have no idea what I’m agreeing to.

Still smiling, he gets up, walks over to the kitchen. I watch him as he grabs another bottle out of the fridge and pops the top, then walks back over to me. “Here,” he says, holding it out.

I set down the empty bottle and reach for it. “Thanks,” I say. And in an effort not to look like an alcoholic or some PTSD cliché, I curb the impulse to immediately start chugging the thing down, set it on my knee instead.

“Be right back,” he says cryptically. Still smiling.

I track him as he disappears into his bedroom, wondering what he’s getting and if I should be concerned, but the moment he clears the room I take a grateful gulp of brewskie. Because I can’t fucking help myself.

I’ve barely swallowed it before he’s back, a large, thin book in his hand. He offers it to me when he reaches me, and I glance down at it. Feel my stomach sink through the couch.

_The Ice Princess_

“Take it,” he says.

I do, exchange it for the beer bottle. Feel a fresh pang of embarrassment as I look at the cover illustration. And even though I already knew, because Lundy told me, the weight of it hits me all over again. What a paranoid piece of shit I am. “ _The Ice Princess,_ ” I say softly.

“Yeah,” he says as he sits back down beside me, closer this time. “I guess I never said what kind of books I write. Mostly kids books, picture books.”

“The illustrations too?” I ask, looking up from it.

“Yeah.” He’s grinning now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid it’d ruin my masculine image,” he says, grinning.

I smile too, but it fades quickly as I look back down at the book, read the cover again, flip through a few of the pages. I want to kill myself, just douse myself in kerosene and light a cigarette. “I’m so sorry,” I say, letting it close. “I’m such an ass.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, and I look at him. “It’s okay. Really, it is. I understand. But…” he trails off, and I feel myself flush. “In the future maybe you could leave my computer alone? If you think you can trust me?”

“Yeah,” I say, meaning it. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks.”

I glance at the book again, flash on my behavior last night. “Jesus,” I murmur, then blow out a breath, pull my hair back.

“You alright?”

I nod. And then I act on an impulse, reach for his hand. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say as I take it, meeting his gaze.

“I’m glad,” he says.

His closeness is sinking in now, suddenly, as I study his face. As I lightly squeeze his palm. It’s a little calloused, probably from weightlifting, and it occurs to me that I like the roughness.

“Thanks for being so understanding,” I say, not really wanting to push that away, wanting to cling to it, or to fall into it. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever want to see me again after last night.” I pause. “I’m not sure _I_ would’ve wanted to see me again.”

“Of course I wanted to see you again.”

I smile, as something warm washes through me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

As our fingers interlock.

“Why?” I can’t help asking.

“I don’t know.” He’s smiling too.

We seem to be drifting closer, as if magnetized, and my heart rate picks up as all those feelings, as all those images of that garage where I so nearly died, fall away. For the first time I notice the sound of the overhead fan, catch the scent of his cologne, the sour hints of beer from his breath and our bottles. It suddenly occurs to me how far away I was, like I was trapped behind a glass wall, and deep underground.

“I wanted to see you too,” I say, quietly. We’re very close now. And I can feel something like lust, but more jagged, cutting through me. Something like desperation.

“Why?” he repeats my question. Teasingly.

“I don’t know,” I lie. Because I don’t really want to think about it.

Because I’m already drawing him the rest of the way toward me.

And because maybe I just don’t give a shit.


	40. Naples

__

_Naples  
_ _Setting: “Dex, Lies, and Videotape”_

* * *

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, dozing. Probably at least twenty minutes. I forgot what the clock said when I first woke up. I saw it without really reading it before I rolled over, fell back asleep. Since it’s Saturday and it doesn’t matter.

Now I’m mostly awake, but I don’t want to move yet. I’m savoring the feeling of lying here, of being able to lie here like this, of not having to turn on the TV or sprint out the door to escape the silence or the taste of some jumbled nightmare. Last night I didn’t dream about him at all, for once.

I scratch my neck, try to remember.

I think Lundy was in it. I think he came in to the station to tell us he was retiring from the FBI and opening an Italian restaurant down in Brickell. And I think Masuka adopted a talking chicken.

I let my hand rest on my collar.

That was weird.

A clattering from the other side of the wall attracts my attention, and I sit up slightly to listen. Hear the beep and hum of a microwave. And now that I’m paying attention, I can suddenly smell coffee too.

Eh, fuck it.

I shift the blanket off, roll out of bed, smooth back my hair as I head for and open the door. Dexter looks over at me as I walk out, his hand still resting on the microwave handle. He’s not dressed either.

“Oh, did I wake you up?” he asks.

“No.” I shake my head, lay my palms on the counter. “Just got me up.”

“Want any coffee?”

“Sure.”

He nods, reaches into the dish rack and pulls out a mug. I watch him as he fills it, carefully wipes a couple drips off the counter, then sets it in front of me. “Cream?” he asks.

“I’m good,” I say, then pick it up, take a sip.

The microwave beeps, and Dexter pulls his own mug out of it, takes a drink, winces, sets it down.

“Too hot?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

I don’t say anything as he retrieves his shitty, white chocolate marshmallow or whatever it is creamer out of the fridge and mixes it in, just wrinkle my nose and drink more of my own coffee. It’s borderline lukewarm, but I don’t care enough to ask him to put it in the microwave too. Instead I go over to the stool and take a seat, wrap my hands around the ceramic.

“When did you get home?” I ask, mildly curious. He wasn’t here when I got back last night.

“I think around 11:30 or 12,” he says.

“At Rita’s?”

He looks at me almost warily. “Yeah,” he confirms after a second.

“What’s with the face?” I can’t help asking.

“I don’t have a face.”

“You do so.”

“I do not.” His tone curls defensively.

Now it’s my turn to just look at him. “You’re prickly this morning.”

“I’m not—” He stops himself, collects. “I’m not prickly.”

“Uh huh.” I give him another look, then pick up my mug and swivel, head over to the couch. A moment or two after I’ve sat I hear him sigh, and then he follows me over, schlumps into the chair. I don’t say anything as I draw my legs up onto the cushions, lean back against the arm.

“Rita’s mom is planning on moving into her house,” he says eventually.

I laugh at the hint of misery in his expression. “What?” I say. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday morning.”

I laugh again. “Is that what you’re upset about?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, hides behind his cup.

As he drinks I notice a bunch of bruises on his knuckle, and my brows pinch. “What happened to your hand?” I ask, feeling less amused.

He glances down at it, as if not knowing what I’m talking about. “Oh,” he says. “I closed the van door on it.”

I search him, but I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. It looks like he punched something, but if he did I can’t imagine why. What? Over Rita’s mom? Something else?

99 percent of the time Dexter is the picture of self-possession. It’s just that random 1 percent I never know about. Then again I haven’t really seen him act out since I was still in the Academy.

Whatever. It’s none of my business.

“Speaking of your new mommy mover,” I say instead, “how was the open road?”

I didn’t see him at all yesterday, beyond a glance from the briefing room, so I haven’t had the chance to ask him about it before now. He was out most of the day, and so was I, hopping around a couple private marinas near Coral Cove with Batista. And then I was with Gabriel. I’m not even sure when he got back from wherever he went.

“It was good,” he says.

I take another sip of coffee. “Where’d it take you?”

“Over to Naples.”

My blows plunge. “What the fuck’s in Naples?”

“A motel room near the beach?”

I look at him for a beat, wondering if he’s screwing with me. Wondering if the bruises on his fist have anything to do with him going to Naples. But his face is as frustratingly bland as ever, and I’ve got no fucking idea.

“I don’t understand you,” I say, giving up.

“Thanks,” he says.

I roll my eyes, kind of regretting ever leaving the bed.

“What about you? How was your date?”

I exhale reflexively. “Long story,” I say, not particularly wanting to talk about it.

“Bad?” he asks.

I nod. “And embarrassing.”

He looks at me curiously, and I drain my coffee before meeting his gaze again. Even if he isn’t willing to share any of the details of his mid-week trip, that doesn’t mean I have to be equally evasive.

I reach over and set the empty mug on the coffee table. “Remember how I’m insane?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, a little too immediately.

I set my jaw, feeling freshly abashed as I think about it. “And you remember how I’m an asshole?”

“Is there a safe way to answer that?”

I smile, shake my head. “No.” Fidget my fingers, now that I don’t have the mug to grip anymore. End up pulling my hair behind my ears and to one shoulder. “He made the mistake of leaving me alone with his laptop,” I admit finally, after a second. “I went through his emails.”

He gives me almost the exact same look Lundy did when I told him, and I flush, continue before he can speak, “It turns out he’s a writer, which I already knew, but…” I trail off. “I saw an email he sent to a publisher about his latest book— _The_ _Ice Princess._ ”

His brows plummet. “ _The Ice Princess_?” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

He leans back in his chair, and it seems like he’s coming to the same conclusion I leapt to.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” I say, even though he doesn’t voice his thoughts. “I blew up at him and stormed out of his place, went back to the station, where I ran into Lundy. Who told me he’d run a background check on Gabriel.”

“A background check?” he says. “Why?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Probably because of a conversation I had with him over lunch.”

He still looks confused. “What’d it say?”

“That Gabriel writes children’s books.” I pause for a second, feel a flash of annoyance at myself. “Which you’d think I’d know, right? Like that’s something I should’ve asked about, what kind of books he writes.”

“I don’t know,” Dexter says. Safely.

“I don’t either.” I blow out a breath. “Anyway, I went to see him yesterday to apologize, ended up explaining about what happened to me. About… Rudy.” I pause, because I still don’t know what to call him. “He forgave me, said he understands.”

“So it worked out then?”

“I guess so.” I shrug. “Somehow.” Pause. “I’m seeing him again tonight, actually.”

“To cuddle some more?”

I laugh shortly. “Fuck off.”

He grins, drinks the rest of his coffee.

I almost want to tell him that we finally moved beyond the cuddle phase yesterday, shortly after our conversation, on his couch. And again after we ordered and ate some delivery, after he read me his book. With the condoms I’ve been carrying around in my purse since last week. That I almost spent the night, was stopped only barely by my lack of desire to do a walk of shame this morning in the change of clothes I keep in my gym bag in my trunk.

But I keep it to myself, thinking about something else instead. “Anyway, what time is it?” I ask.

“Uh…” Dexter says, then leans forward, grabs his watch off the coffee table. “Almost 9.”

I nod. “I’ve got an appointment to look at a place at 11.”

His interest seems to sharpen a hair. “Where?” he asks.

“Just over in Surfside. I like it up here.” I try to remember which place this was. “I think the ad said it has in-unit laundry machines.”

“Nice.” He nods.

“Want to come with me?” I find myself asking.

A cloud of hesitation passes over his features, and I’m almost disappointed. “I’ll buy you breakfast,” I add.

A beat passes. “Sure,” he says.

I grin. “Thanks.”

He nods, seeming less than enthused. But then again what else was he going to do this morning?

I unwrap my legs, get up off the coach and stretch. Yawn. “Want to get going in fifteen?” I ask.

“Sure.”

Nodding, I start to head for the bedroom.

“Deb,” he stops me.

“Hm?” I look back.

“Take this to the sink, please.” He holds out my empty mug to me.

I look between him and it, having this weird, sudden feeling like the last twelve or so years of our lives have evaporated. Like we’re back in our parents’ house, in the middle of an argument we had because I’d decided to throw away a bowl I’d let mold away in the fridge instead of trying to wash it. I couldn’t fucking stop antagonizing him, maybe because it was so hard to get anything out of him at all after Dad died.

And then I blink, and it’s gone. “Hand me yours too,” I say.

He nods, and I lean down, take them both from him.

“I’ll rinse them out,” I say as I walk over to the sink. “And then let’s get moving. I’m fucking starving.”


	41. A Train Car in a Scrap Yard

__

_A Train Car in a Scrap Yard  
_ _Setting: “Dex, Lies, and Videotape”_

* * *

The smell hits me immediately, the moment I open the car door: rust and garbage and rotting wood, all baked in a brininess that seems somehow all the more disgusting this far inland. It makes me want to retract back into the car.

I get out anyway, slam the door. And then I glance at the windows, wondering if leaving them cracked was a mistake, despite the heat. All I can think is that I’m glad this isn’t my car.

“Fuck, it stinks,” I say quietly, mostly to myself, as I finally step away.

Batista glances at me over the hood and grins a little. “Yeah,” he agrees, bobbing his head.

Exhaling, I shove the keys into my pocket, adjust my badge around my neck as I turn to survey the scene.

The Butcher’s supposed attempted-murder site is one of a bunch of scrap yards on the east side of Allapattah that run along the Miami River. This corner of the neighborhood is just outside of city limits, so along with cops from our department and the feds there are also a lot of county deputies standing around. As I scan for Lundy, a CSU van pulls in about ten yards from where I parked, sits and idles. My brother hasn’t gotten here yet. He’s probably still caught in the same traffic we were.

My attention drifts left, lands on an ambulance sitting near a bunch of old train cars. Inside, I suspect, is the guy who says he escaped the Butcher.

I stare into it curiously, at the back of an EMT who’s blocking my view in. I wonder if it’s true.

And, if it is, I wonder if he deserved it.

“Deb,” Batista says, catching my attention. I look back over at him. “Lundy.” He indicates somewhere in front of us.

I follow his gaze, find Lundy inside one of the train cars. When I make eye contact with him he nods, gestures us over.

I nod back, and Batista and I start walking in his direction. I wonder when he got here, or, more specifically, how he got here before us.

Gridlock on the expressway turned what would otherwise have been a ten-minute drive into an almost forty-minute stand still. Batista spent most of the drive telling me about custody issues with his daughter, which I struggled to care about more with every passing minute. Eventually he ran out of things to say, and I didn’t take up the conversational slack. For some reason I feel a little nettled.

“Hey,” I say to Lundy as we approach. “This where he was held?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding.

“You have a chance to talk with him yet?” Batista asks as he starts climbing the steps into the car.

He shakes his head. “No. We only got here a few minutes ago.”

Nodding, I follow Batista, suck in a breath at the smell. It’s a fucking rotten dump in here.

And then I find the table, on the right side of the car, in the middle of a sea of garbage, and the whole world and the train car seem to dim away. I find myself moving toward it, without having really decided to.

“He was here?” I ask. “On this table?”

“I assume so.” Lundy’s voice floats in from somewhere behind me.

But it doesn’t make sense. I stare at the rough loops of rope hanging off the table, wrapped around the legs. I can’t find a speck of plastic as I look around. When I turn, I spot a hatchet leaning against a box in the corner, and my brows dip.

“What do you think, Officer Morgan?” Lundy asks.

Everything snaps back into focus when I meet his gaze. “This is wrong,” I say.

“How so?”

You know how, I want to tell him as I glance around again. You don’t need me to explain.

“Because it’s a fucking pig sty,” I say anyway. “No way the guy whose only trace has been algae and plastic wrap would kill someone here, like this. And, besides,” I say as I glance back at the table, “the Butcher doesn’t use rope.”

_Plastic wrap and duct tape._

( _“Call it an homage…”_ )

“What’re you saying, Deb?” Batista cuts over his voice. I look at him. “You don’t think this was our guy because he used rope?”

I shrug. “We’ve got victims going back to the ‘90s who were all wrapped up in plastic. Why would he change it up now?”

“Maybe he was bored?” He shrugs. “Having a midlife crisis? Does he need a reason? He’s a serial killer.”

Yeah, he would.

I glance around again, thinking about Rudy. About what he did to me and Tony Tucci. But maybe all this certainty that I feel, that this wasn’t the Butcher, is just projection.

“Then why now?” I ask, trying to justify my gut. “Assuming this was him, why would he kill some random fuckmuppet now, with the investigation shining a spotlight up his ass? If there was ever a time to go underground, it’d be now.”

Again he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he snapped under the heat and wanted to take it out on someone. Maybe he tried to kill him with whatever he had handy.”

I can’t imagine him being so impulsive, I almost say, but I don’t know whether or not I’m even talking entirely about the Butcher anymore. “What do you think?” I ask Lundy.

He’s looking at the hatchet, his hands buried in the pockets of his slacks. “It’s too early to say for sure,” he says after a beat, “but, no, I don’t think this is the work of our killer either. It’s too sloppy.” He glances around, as if to take it all in again. “But I would like to hear what your brother has to say.”

_Figured it was time to get a fresh perspective on the case._

And there’s that wave of irritation again.

I set my jaw and nod, looking away from him. I know it’s fucking stupid, but I can’t help it.

“Well, I’ve seen enough,” Batista says. “I’ll go coordinate with county. I’m assuming they’re the ones who called it in to you?”

“Yes,” Lundy affirms.

He nods and takes a deep breath, pulls a bit of a face as he looks around, then turns to step out of the car. I go back to staring at the table as he goes, a bunch of malformed thoughts bubbling in and out of my consciousness. I don’t make any effort to force any of them to the surface. I know I don’t want to hear them.

But one gets through anyway, shoots through every nerve simultaneously:

_I want a cigarette._

“Something up?”

“What?” I ask automatically, looking back at Lundy.

“You seem quiet today,” he says.

I really want a cigarette. “I’m fine,” I say. And because I don’t want him to press me, I decide to change the subject. “Want to see if our victim is ready to talk to us?” I ask.

“Sure.” He seems to be studying me, in that way that always makes me feel transparent, like he can somehow hear the thoughts I’m trying to suppress. But as we turn to exit the car, it occurs to me that he probably doesn’t find me nearly as interesting as I think he does, as I want him to, and this is just my self-absorption talking.

Though that does nothing to make me feel any less annoyed— whether at him or at me, I don’t know —as we walk together toward the ambulance. We pass Batista, who’s in a clump of deputies and detectives, and I catch the word “prick” come from one of them, but not much else.

“What’s this guy’s name?” I ask, as we get within a few yards of the ambulance.

“John Henry,” he says.

I stop, while we’re still out of earshot. “Any particular way you want to play this?”

He stops too, shakes his head. “Hopefully we’ll just have a friendly conversation.”

“Sounds good.” I start forward again, and he follows me.

We get to the ambulance just as the EMT is hopping out of the back.

“How is he?” Lundy asks.

“Oh, he’s fine.” He takes off his hat to smooth back his hair, then puts it back on. “I just have him on some painkillers.”

“Does he need to go to the hospital?”

He nods. “It looks like he took a nasty shot to the head, so we’ll want to check him out, but there’s not necessarily a rush if you need to talk to him.”

“Thanks. We’ll make it brief.”

“Appreciate it.” He nods at us, then heads toward the front of the car and opens the door, climbs inside.

“Ready?” Lundy asks, looking at me.

“Yup,” I reply, then gesture toward the back. “After you, Agent Lundy.”

He nods, then steps up into the car. “Hello, Mr. Henry,” he says after he straightens, as he walks inside. “I’m Special Agent Lundy, and this is Officer Morgan with Miami Metro.” By the time he introduces me, I’m pulling myself up too. “Would you mind chatting with us for a few minutes?”

Henry smiles slightly as he glances at me. The very first thing I think when I see him is that he looks like a younger Jack Nicholson with a shitty set of teeth. “Yeah, sure,” he says, looking between us.

“Thank you,” Lundy says. His hands are back in his pockets.

Henry slips me another look, and I have this strange, sudden flashback to being in Vice. Just for a millisecond.

“So tell me what happened, Mr. Henry,” Lundy continues.

For some reason he’s still got a bit of the smirk as he looks back at the agent.

I fall against the wall of the ambulance, slip my fingers into my own pockets. Exhale as I take in the wounds on his face.

Wait for him to confirm what I already suspect.


	42. Storm, Incoming

__

_Storm, Incoming  
_ _Setting: “Dex, Lies, and Videotape”_

* * *

I push out the double doors and head for the roach coach, thinking about coffee, debating about getting something else. I’m not really hungry, but, knowing how things go, this may end up being my only chance to eat before lunch.

I’ve got time to figure it out. There’s a knot of patrol officers standing in front of the truck, probably all grabbing coffee before their watch starts. A few of them glance at me as I stop behind them, and we exchange nods, but I don’t make any effort to engage with them. I’m too wrapped up in what my brother said this morning, and whatever’s going on with Lundy for him to call us all in so early.

I went straight to the briefing room when I got here, found Lundy alone on the phone inside. He shooed me out when I opened the door, which surprised me even though it shouldn’t have, even though the call obviously wasn’t any of my business.

It’s put me a little on edge. I’ve never seen Lundy so tense, so I can only imagine what managed to crawl under the zen master’s skin.

I glance up when I feel something like a raindrop hit my head, hold out my hand, but it isn’t raining. Automatically check my hair for bird shit, come back clean. It’s so fucking humid this morning that the air itself seems to be condensing to water. From the look of the clouds, there’s a downpour incoming, and I’d really like to be inside when it hits.

But I shift under the nearest umbrella, keep on waiting for the uniforms to get their orders and go. More than anything else right now, I just want a fucking espresso.

My thoughts turn to Dexter.

I wonder what happened. He was asleep on the couch by the time I got home last night, after I got back from Gabriel’s. It seemed a little early for him, but I didn’t really think about it, just showered and went to bed. I can’t imagine what it was that Rita thought he did, what would’ve been enough for her to dump him without giving him a chance to explain. Every time I’ve asked my brother how it’s been going between them he’s always said it’s great. I don’t remember either of them ever seeming unhappy with each other. Since they started dating they’ve been like the poster children for the kind of nice, easy, not-a-pile-of-shit relationship I feel like I’ve been looking for my entire adult life. And suddenly this.

There’s only one thing I can think of. She must think he’s been fucking around. And maybe I could see it too, with his weird-ass hours. Even I don’t know what he does that keeps him out so late. He’s always been so fucking secretive, and from what she’s said to me, he isn’t anymore open with her.

It hits me suddenly, as the uniforms start streaming away from the truck, and as I make my way forward: Naples. I wonder if it had something to do with his decision to go to Naples. Because I just can’t figure what the fuck he was doing there, why he felt the need to drive all the way out there on a Thursday night. And why he came back with bruised knuckles.

I wonder if I asked him about it again if for once he wouldn’t just feed me more bullshit.

“Hey, Officer Morgan,” Marty says when I stop below him.

“Hey, Marty,” I reply, still thinking about Dexter.

“How’re you this morning?”

I shrug. “I’m good,” I reply reflexively. “You?”

“Oh, you know,” he says. “Can’t complain.” He shoves something out of the way, looks back at me. “What can I do you for?”

“Can I get a cortadito, please? Heavy on the milk.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

He flashes me a smile, then turns around, starts messing with the espresso machine. I glance back up at the sky. No rain yet.

I don’t know what to think about Dexter. He’s such a fucking idiot sometimes. I couldn’t stand it if this all got thrown away because he’s got the communication skills of a deranged gorilla.

I say, as if I’m not the last person in the known universe to be doling out relationship advice.

I think about Rudy, about the last twenty mistakes. Think about Gabriel.

“You have anymore muffins?” I call into the truck, not wanting to do that.

“Sure.” Marty looks back at me, then gestures to the left of the window. “Looks like I’ve got cranberry pecan, poppyseed, and one last morning glory.”

“I’ll take the last one.”

He nods. “Want it on a plate or to go?”

“To go.”

He nods again, grabs a pair of tongs and takes the muffin, shoves it into a pastry bag. When he holds it out the window to hand it to me, he says, “I’ll have your coffee in a sec.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking it.

“No problem,” he says.

I shift the bag to my other hand, extract a ten from my pocket. But despite the distraction I’m still thinking about Gabriel.

There’s just… something. I don’t know.

He’s _nice._

He’s fine.

Everything’s fine.

I like him.

I push the muffin up through the bag, take a bite out of it.

I’m still not sure why I left last night. We were in bed and he asked if I wanted to stay, but I didn’t. For some reason. Maybe just because I was still annoyed about my day and didn’t want to have to do the drive home to change before work this morning.

I eat more of the muffin. It does nothing to quell the discomfort inside me.

“Alright, there you go.”

Marty’s holding a cup out to me.

“Thanks.” I take it, exchange it for the ten. He nods and retracts back inside. When he hands me my change I tell him to keep the coins and hand him back a dollar.

“Thank you,” he says. “Have an awesome day.”

I shove the rest of the bills into my pocket. “Thanks,” I say, knowing the chance of that is almost certainly zilcho. “You too.”

Taking a sip of the espresso, I turn, head back for the doors. Fuck but it’s good. At this moment I would’ve given him the whole ten just for this, this one sip.

I take another.

I’m still thinking about Gabriel and Dexter as I head for the elevator. As I wait for it with a couple other cops. As we ride it up. None of it’s productive.

Finally I exit out into Homicide, and I force myself back into work mode as I head for the pen. Soderquist is at his desk, but Ramos and Doakes are gone. I don’t see Masuka either. Batista’s sitting at his desk, seeming to be deep inside a phone call. I catch the name “Henry” as I move behind my own desk, open a drawer, and I wonder if he’s got something, coz I certainly don’t.

I take another bite of the muffin, then wrap it back up, shove it in the drawer. Push my chair aside so I can access my computer to check my email.

I didn’t turn up anything useful yesterday. After Lundy left me in the ambulance with Henry, I asked him some more questions, if he had anymore ideas about who might want to kill him, if he’d seen anything unusual recently, but he didn’t know, and without Lundy there he didn’t take me or my questions seriously. By the time I finally left him to the EMT, I half wanted to kill him myself.

After lunch I got in contact with his parole officer, went over his records with Batista, Ramos, and Lundy. I ended up spending a long time looking into the old man Henry said he’d given a heart attack, Bill Pinkasovic, left a message for his son. He hasn’t gotten back to me yet, so at least I still have some time to figure out a delicate way to ask him if he tried to murder someone last night.

When my email pulls up I find nothing pressing, just some replies from my latest half-hearted diggings into Jennifer Gruber and Marcus White’s lives. There’s also something from the guy who runs Turkey Creek.

I open it, wondering what he wants. Find he’s just asking if I found anything in the rental logs I requested last week.

Exhaling, I ex out of my email, straighten up. I’ll reply to him later, probably with a variation of some “it’s too soon to tell” bullshit. The truth is I haven’t found shit there either.

I grab my coffee again and head back to the briefing room. As I go I notice Dexter walking in the same direction from the other end of the hall. I smile at him before going inside. He doesn’t quite return it.

Shock of shocks.

“Hey,” I say to Lundy as I enter. There are a bunch of other people in here now, including the techs who’ve been working on the marina cams. And, for some reason, Masuka.

“Morning,” Lundy says. He still seems annoyed.

I want to ask what’s going on, but I know he’s probably going to tell us all soon. “Are the cams up now?” I say instead.

“I’m not sure. I was about to ask Cindy for an update.”

I nod, take a sip of coffee.

“Have you seen Detective Batista and your brother?”

I suppress the knee-jerk ping of irritation. “Yeah,” I say. “Batista’s on the phone. Dexter’s on his way in.”

“Good.” He rearranges some papers on his desk.

“Something up?” I can’t help asking.

He makes a face. “You’ll find out in a moment.”

Before I can ask him how I should interpret that, he steps away, starts toward the techs. I watch him go for a moment, taking another sip of coffee.

Yeah, I think as I move to join him. Today’s gonna be great.


	43. Fire Alarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some borrowed dialogue.

__

_Fire Alarm  
_ _Setting: “Dex, Lies, and Videotape”_

* * *

I turn on the TV, then roll it closer to Batista’s desk so it’s out of the walkway, plop into his seat to watch it. Olson and his lawyer, whose name I don’t know, are already sitting in the interview room. Lundy hasn’t come in yet, though I saw him grab Masuka from his hole a couple minutes ago. I don’t know where Batista is. I thought he was still with his suspect.

I was benched for this one. It’s for obvious reasons— Olson was Batista’s catch, not mine —but I can’t help feeling a little annoyed at the brush off earlier. I don’t know where Lundy’s sudden interest in my brother came from, but it’s getting harder and harder not to react to it. He’s not even _on_ the damn task force. For however much longer there even is a task force.

I shift in my seat, throw my arm over the chair back. I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much either. There’s just something about Lundy. For some reason I _want_ him to care, want him to want me in the room.

I remember what I said to Gabriel, about him being like Dad. Remember what he said about me having a crush on him.

Of course, now I can’t stop thinking about it, now that he’s put a name to it, now that Lundy’s floated the idea of yanking the investigation from our department.

Because I don’t know what’s worse: that the attention seeking is because of some absentee-father complex cliché, or because I’m just a little in love with him.

_I didn’t know you were a smoker._

Goddamn him.

The object of my frustration finally walks into the interview room, along with Batista and Masuka. After they introduce themselves, Masuka sets his case down, takes a seat next to Olson as Batista sits in the chair across from them. Lundy hasn’t sat yet. He’s pulling something out of an interior pocket in his suit. The two on the suspect end of the table watch him silently as he removes something that looks like a box and sets it on the table, finally takes his seat next to Batista.

I lean in to look at it, my brows folding. Watch as he opens it up. Feel a hint of incredulity.

Are those… fucking animal crackers?

Despite everything, all the annoyance, I snort, shake my head to myself.

Fucking of course it is…

“ _So, Mr. Olson,”_ Batista starts, after Lundy’s settled, _“the man who assaulted your mom was attacked yesterday. Did you know that?”_

“ _Nope,”_ Olson says. _“Can’t say I’m upset though. Sonofabitch almost killed my mom.”_

Movement to my right attracts my attention. I look over to see Dexter stopped beside the desk, his eyes trained on the TV.

“That your suspect?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Got anything on him?”

I shake my head. “Not really. Batista’s hoping he’ll let something slip.”

“ _Any idea who might’ve done it?”_

Dexter stares at the screen for a second more, then looks at me. He seems a little jittery, for him anyway. “Here’s hoping,” he says.

“Yeah.” He looks like he’s about to walk away, but I stop him. “You want to do dinner tonight?” I ask. “Talk about whatever’s going on between you and Rita?”

The ‘no’ is all over his face before he’s even opened his mouth. “Tonight’s not a good night for me,” he says. Predictably.

I pull a face. “Why? You have plans?”

He nods. “Rita called me earlier. She said she wanted to talk, so I’m meeting her after work.”

“Really?” I’m half listening to the TV too, catch something about a lion and a hippo. Glance at the screen to see Lundy studying one of his crackers like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “That’s a good sign,” I say, looking back at Dexter.

“Yeah, I hope so,” he says.

I grin predatorily, unable to help myself. “Want me to see if I can stay at Gabriel’s tonight? Give you and Rita the chance for a little make-up fuck? That’s always the best…”

“And I’m going now.”

I laugh as he walks away. “Fucking let me know!” I call after him.

He waves without turning, then escapes into the hall.

I grin, turn back to the screen.

“— _you getting at something?”_ the lawyer’s asking.

Lundy leans forward, puts the box of crackers down. _“What he’s getting at, Mr. Novik,_ ” he says, _“is that your client fits the four-point profile of someone who’d commit a vigilante offense. I think you’re a ticking time bomb. You ask me, you just needed a reason to take the law into your own hands, and the Butcher was the perfect excuse.”_

“ _You don’t know me,”_ Olson says, not seeming particularly shaken.

My grin slowly fades. It doesn’t seem like they’re getting anywhere. Not that I’m really surprised: Olson came in voluntarily, and prepared. He already knew what we suspect him of.

“ _We know you attacked John Henry,”_ Batista says.

“ _You need proof to make those kinds of accusations, Detective,”_ the lawyer replies. Accurately, annoyingly.

“ _You heard the man, Detective,”_ Lundy says. _“We’ve got work to do. Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Olson. We’re just getting started with you.”_

I look away from the screen as they all get up, then get up too, decide to meet them outside the room. By the time I’ve walked the handful of yards over there, they’re stepping out. Lundy looks much more tranquil than he did this morning, despite the fruitlessness of that conversation. Maybe it’s because of the animal crackers.

Masuka looks… well, like Masuka.

“That went well,” I say after they shut the door.

Batista makes a ‘what can you do?’ face and sighs.

“He knows we don’t have anything on him,” Lundy says. “Yet, anyway.”

We start walking back toward the pen.

“I’ll get started on his sample,” Masuka says. “Maybe we can nail him with DNA.”

“One can only hope.” Lundy says. He opens the box again, pulls out another cracker as Masuka moves away from us with his kit. “In the meantime we’ve unfortunately got nothing to hold him with.”

We stop next to Batista’s desk.

“Are we cutting him loose?” I ask.

He nods, eats the cracker. “His lawyer’s not going to let us keep him here.”

“He might try to take another shot at Henry when we let him go,” Batista says. “Maybe we should put a detail on him, wait to see if anything happens.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “We shouldn’t risk it, especially since we know he owns firearms. I don’t think Olson’s concerned about what happens to him at this point. We don’t know what lengths he may go to to exact his vengeance on Henry, or someone else.”

“So what’re you proposing?”

“We place Henry under protective custody for the time being, at least until we can start tightening the noose around Olson’s neck. Morgan,” he looks at me, “would you mind getting the ball rolling on that?”

I feel a strong wave of whatever the opposite of enthusiasm is. “Yeah, sure,” I say.

“Thanks. I think for now we’ll let Olson stew, but the clock’s ticking here.”

“Yeah.” As if I needed reminding. “I’ll get started now.”

“I’ll keep digging into him,” Batista says, taking the chair I just vacated.

I start walking toward my desk, and Lundy comes with me. I want to ask him how serious he is about pulling the case from us, been wanting to all day, but I already know the answer. It just suddenly feels much more real, much more likely, with Olson forcing us to show him our hand. And who knows what the fuck’s gonna happen if he’s not the only one feeling inspired by the Butcher.

But we’ve reached my desk before I’ve thought of anything to say, and Lundy keeps walking, heading toward Masuka. I watch him go for a second, then turn to grab my chair.

Abruptly, as I move to sit, the fire alarm goes off.

“What the fuck?” I murmur, wincing at the noise.

Lundy looks back at me, his brows descending. Behind him, Masuka flies out of his chair and opens a cabinet, yanks out a bright orange vest, as all around us every cop in the pen starts getting up.

“Can you still arrange custody away from your desk?” Lundy asks as he heads back in my direction. Masuka’s putting on the vest now.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, though it’s going to be a little more annoying now.

“Good. If you wouldn’t mind getting started, I’ll go escort Mr. Olson and his lawyer out of the building.”

He moves away rapidly, tucking his animal crackers back into his suit pocket as he goes. Meanwhile, Masuka’s grabbed a wand thing from the same cabinet, looking very excited.

Exhaling, wanting to get away from him and the noise, I turn and grab all the files sitting on my desk that I think might be relevant when I go down to county, along with the keys to the car I requisitioned earlier today, go to join the line of cops streaming for the stairwell.


	44. Dismembered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on chronology— most of this day happened on a weird time scale that didn’t make much sense to me, especially from Dexter’s end of events, since he attacked and killed Olson after nightfall (sunset time in late March puts this at 8PMish or later), but then went to meet Rita afterward. For once this doesn’t really effect Deb, so I can comfortably time this scene at half past 10PM, but it does seem a little strange if you’re assuming the discovery of Olson’s body was more or less concurrent with Dexter meeting Rita, so I figured I’d mention it.

__

_Dismembered  
_ _Setting: “Dex, Lies, and Videotape”_

* * *

It’s been almost a half an hour since we found Olson, or what’s left of him, anyway, and the techs are starting to arrive, along with more cops and feds. At this point, there’s probably a line of squad cars stretching down the next couple scrap yards, in either direction.

I’m back in the train car, studying the pile of trash bags the Butcher left us. Olson really was left gift wrapped for us, cut up and set up framed under the beam of a hot light.

And as I stand here I feel… nothing. Not for Olson, or for what I’m seeing.

I don’t know what that means.

I got the call at Gabriel’s. I went over there after work, feeling frustrated— with the case, with Lundy, with having to spend a couple hours of my day dealing with all the protective custody shit, with new and irritating thoughts about the Butcher and the Ice Truck Killer. For whatever reason I got caught on a loop, thinking that Olson wasn’t the only one to draw inspiration from our killer. That this fucker seems to be capturing everyone’s imaginations.

It was a relief to invite myself over. I all but threw myself at him when he opened the door, desperate to get away from it. If he was surprised by my aggression, he didn’t acknowledge it. I don’t know if I like that about him or not.

We were having a belated dinner of microwaved white rice and broccoli and burger patties in a soup of A1 when my phone rang. When I picked it up, I was surprised to hear Lundy’s voice on the other end.

“ _I’m sorry to call you so late,”_ he started.

“ _No,”_ I said, looking away from Gabriel. _“It’s okay. What’s up?”_

“ _We might have a situation. 911 just received a call from someone claiming Ken Olson is dead and that his body’s at the scrap yard where Henry was attacked.”_

“ _What?”_ I said. _“Are you serious?”_

“ _Yes.”_

I walked a little away from Gabriel then. _“Who called it in to us?”_ I asked quietly. _“Was it him?”_

“ _You now know as much as I do,”_ he replied. His voice was tight.

Less than twenty minutes later I was pulling up to meet the rest of the task force outside Dade Iron & Metal. Batista handed me a Kevlar vest from out of the tac van, and we went in hot. I still haven’t heard the 911 recording, but Lundy did, and he was spooked enough that it convinced me immediately that this was credible.

And now I’m standing over a heap of Hefty bags filled with body parts. Barely six hours ago this guy was alive and in our station house, watching Lundy eat animal crackers from across a table. I wonder how long he lived after we released him. If, like Jennifer Gruber, a bunch of cops were the last people to see him alive.

I fold back the bag that contains his head, wanting to sate a sudden, dispassionate curiosity. When I do, I find no cut on either cheek.

I’m not surprised. Olson was a warning, not a trophy: the Butcher’s way of marking Miami as his territory. A ‘Don’t Fuck With Me’ spelled out in blood.

I stare at his face, still feeling nothing. His skin is barely livid, eyes closed, jaw lolling open. Blood has pooled into the bottom of the bag, thick and horrible smelling. A few flies have already found the place, and as I watch one of them lands on his nose, starts crawling down and around and into a nostril.

Did he know what was going to happen to him?

Did he die here? Did the Butcher take him here to kill him, or just to dump his pieces?

Did he die strapped to this table, naked and wrapped in plastic?

Was he forced to watch, helpless, as the saw came down?

I look away from the head, find myself searching the table and the floor for some evidence of it— a scrap of plastic, a piece of tape —but I don’t find anything. The Butcher cleaned out the car, including most of the garbage that was in here yesterday. It reminds me of how the Ice Truck Killer used to leave his scenes, and of the Airstream where we found Valerie Castillo.

And as I look I realize something. That I was wrong. That I do feel something— pissed off.

This smug fucking shitweevil is _taunting_ us. He’s so fucking confident we won’t find anything here, that he can call us here and leave a corpse for us to find. He even took the time to set up a fucking spotlight for the display. No wonder Rudy said he admired him. They’re cut from the same fucking cloth.

I remember a hundred years ago the call I got from dispatch, about Tony Tucci in that hospital basement. I remember walking in there like a gullible fucking dipshit, totally unaware he called me there. Because he wanted me to see him.

He wanted me to see what he was going to do to me.

I still wonder if he was watching me, that night. If he considered taking me then.

Revulsion curdles in my stomach, and I step out of the train, past a couple techs I barely noticed were there. As I make my way down the yard toward my car, I strip out of the police jacket, feeling suddenly warm, and by the time I reach it I’m fighting the urge to grab a smoke.

Instead I throw the jacket inside, then turn to lean against the door, take a breath. The air is as heavy as it was this morning, and I suspect it’s going to start raining again soon. Which is fucking exactly what we need, with that train car as full of holes as it is.

I take another breath, let it out slowly. Gradually feel the anger leech away. In its place I find… nothing. Again.

I still don’t know what that means, but I decide not to dwell on it.

I watch as a couple techs put up scene tape with cones. The yard is so wide it wouldn’t surprise me if it took a couple rolls.

My thoughts swing to Lundy. I’m worried about the influx of feds here. He disappeared after we found Olson, and I don’t know where he went. He said if anyone died he’d pull the case from Miami Metro, and not even fifteen hours later we’re standing over body parts. I don’t know what it’s going to mean for our department if he takes the case. And, as fucking stupid as it is, I don’t know what it’s going to mean for me. I’ve gotten used to him being here, and the thought of him leaving makes my chest deflate. For reasons I don’t really want to admit, even to myself.

I find myself searching for his wiry frame among the growing sea of law enforcement, over the heads of a bunch of county deputies who look like they just arrived. Instead of Lundy I end up finding Masuka, who’s standing in the middle of a bunch of techs, pointing at the train car, then around the scrap yard. Between the fire alarm earlier and the LFI shit, the annoying little fuck’s been puffed up to twice his usual size today. I’m glad I’m not over there.

But it bothers me that I don’t see Lundy. I want to know what’s happening. I want to know how hard we’re fucked. Or if we’re fucked at all.

So I push off my car, start heading for the train again. He’s around here somewhere. Someone’s had to have seen him.


	45. Alone

__

_Alone  
_ _Setting: “Dex, Lies, and Videotape”_

* * *

I unroll my window a crack, flick the cigarette out, then close it again quickly, before the rain can get into my car. Then I slap my blinker, shift into the right lane to get past a slow-moving Prius.

It started pouring as the coroner was loading the bags containing Olson’s body into the back of his van. Thankfully, we were wrapping up anyway. Lundy took the time to thank us all for coming out so late and to tell us we’d reconvene tomorrow morning in the briefing room, then released us. Lundy and I didn’t say anything to each other, privately or otherwise, before I took off.

I’m still not sure why I did what I did, what fucking possessed me, what the fuck is wrong with me. And maybe I’m insane, or projecting, or something else, but he hugged me back. I felt something tangible pass between us. I just don’t know what it was. Or if it was.

And that little voice, the one with its roots just south of my stomach, is getting louder and louder, becoming impossible to ignore.

I have feelings for Lundy. They hit me like a tidal wave when he told me his newfound interest in my brother had nothing to do with me.

It’s so fucking wrong, so fucking inappropriate. What the _fuck_ is wrong with me? Why do I always do this? I’ve hardly had a single healthy, platonic relationship with a man my entire adult life. And somehow no matter how many mistakes I’ve made, I just keep on making them. I can’t seem to help myself.

And with Lundy…

I’m not retarded. I know how it looks. From multiple angles.

Yet, for some reason, I don’t think I care, even though I know I can’t act on this. Today was a slip, and I can’t let it happen again.

I start working on another cigarette, still going over it in flash frame. I’ve smoked the thing down to a nub and tossed it out the window too before I manage to break my thoughts out of it. I land, immediately, inevitably, on Olson.

The road seems to fog over as I picture all his body parts, his head in the bag. As I see him tied down the same way I was, his forehead pinned with a band of plastic, so tight he could only look up at the ceiling of the train car. Did the Butcher keep him gagged, or did they have some final conversation? Did he confess what he tried to do to Henry? Did he beg for his life? Or were his screams muffled through a strip of tape?

I snap back into focus as a car cuts in front of me, brake and lay on my horn a little too aggressively.

And I realize that now that I’m alone, now that I’m not caught up in thoughts of Lundy and my feelings, the fear is starting to set back in.

I can’t help but wonder if he was watching us tonight, set up on the roof of one of the many neighboring warehouses and tracking us through a pair of binoculars. It’s fucked that he murdered Olson so brutally the same day we released his name and picture to the press, then called us there to find him. How did he even manage to track him down so quickly? Could he have been watching the station? Or did he just catch the news and look him up in the fucking white pages?

And even though Olson was a piece of garbage, even though, deep down, I don’t truly give a shit that he’s dead, I can’t help but feel that we’re responsible for what happened to him. Besides, what if we’re wrong? What if he never attacked Henry? What if we inadvertently served the Butcher a sacrificial lamb?

I gun it through a yellow light, head straight onto the causeway toward home. At this time of night, and in this weather, the highway is clear.

We didn’t truly have anything on Olson. He was just so fucking squirrely that we were all sure he’d done it by the time Lundy finally released him. But that doesn’t make him guilty.

At this point I don’t know that we’ll ever be able to prove what really happened that night in the train car, one way or another. But even if we could, even if he did it, does that mean he deserved what happened to him? Could anyone?

Did I?

I hang a left, cruise past the endless rows of apartment buildings and cars parked along the curbs. It’s raining so hard now that in my headlights all the colors seem to run together like paint. It’s a relief when I finally reach my brother’s complex, though it occurs to me as I turn into it that there’s nowhere covered for me to park. Unless Dexter isn’t here and I steal his space.

For awhile I idle in the lot, watching the windshield wipers slap back and forth, debating about how big of an asshole I want to be. Eventually I decide to just take the space sitting in front of me, because I know how much it’d piss me off if the situations were reversed.

And then I sit for at least a minute after I kill the engine, knowing as I look out the window that between the wind and the rain coming down in sheets there’s not even a point in trying to use an umbrella. And the rain aside, I suddenly feel a little spooked, like I don’t want to get out of my car. The numbness I felt at the scrap yard is fading rapidly now, and the images coming on stronger. Of what he must’ve felt waking up on that table, realizing he was trapped in the train car. The suffocating smell of garbage and decaying metal.

Before it can get much worse, I grab my police slicker from the passenger seat and slip into it, then take my purse and throw open the door. I’m drenched by the time I’ve slammed it closed.

“Fucking great,” I murmur, stuffing my bag under the jacket as I jog for the gate. The second I get the thing open, I sprint for cover, even though at this point I can’t really get any wetter. Around me, perfectly manicured foliage waves in the wind, their shadows leaping weirdly in the dim ground lights.

A minute later I’m turning the key to Dexter’s apartment, yanking the knob as I go. I can’t shake the feeling like there’s something at my back.

“Hello?” I call as I walk in, even though it’s pitch black in the apartment. “Dex?”

No answer.

As if I expected otherwise.

I hit the lights, shut the door and lock it, and the sound of the downpour is instantly muted. For a moment I don’t move from the threshold, just stand dripping into a growing puddle on the floor, listening to the thundering against the roof, and half listening for anything past it. The quiet feels creepy somehow. And now that I’m inside, now that I’m locked in here, despite every better fucking instinct, I’m afraid.

It’s infuriating.

“Fuck,” I murmur, unable to get myself to move. The dark parts of the apartment seem to loom. I can’t assure myself he isn’t here, that maybe, somehow, the Butcher may’ve taken an interest in me as the Ice Truck Killer’s play thing, or as a gift that never reached him.

Gritting my teeth, I shrug out of the jacket and throw it on the counter, then draw my pistol, hide behind it as I start checking rooms. I hate myself as I do it, as I flick on every light in the apartment, open every door. I haven’t had to do this in a long, long time. But I can’t shake the feeling. It fucking creeps me out that Olson died so soon after leaving our station. It fucking creeped me out to see his body sawed up and distributed between plastic bags.

Searching my brother’s place doesn’t take long, and, unsurprisingly, I don’t find anyone lurking in the shadows or the closets or the bathroom. I stop when I walk back into the kitchen, feeling cold and wet and foolish. I don’t move for a couple seconds as I stare at some random point in space, my gun still tight in my grip, my thoughts lost somewhere between here and the train car and that garage. The water in my hair is soaking through my blouse, dripping down my forehead.

I jump at a peal of thunder, finally snap out of it. Realize I brought my gun up on instinct.

“Fucking fuck,” I mutter, feeling another flash of anger. What if that had been Dexter opening the door? I’d’ve probably fucking shot him.

That thought’s enough for me to finally put the thing down on the counter. I take off my badge too, then run my hands through my hair, pull it all to one shoulder. I’m fucking sopped.

I need a shower, or, better yet, a long bath. To wash out the rain, and the scrap yard, and the rest of this god-awful day. But my nerves are so frayed I know I’ll need a few more minutes before I’ll feel safe enough to let the front door out of my sight.

So instead I reach into the fridge and pull out a beer, lean against the counter as I drink it, still half watching the door. I want to call someone, desperately want to vent some of this fear and frustration, but I know I can’t call Dexter, because since he’s not here he’s at Rita’s, and she’s almost certainly asleep by now. And for some reason I don’t really want to call Gabriel. I haven’t mentioned the PTSD or the Ice Truck Killer since I told him about that shit last Friday, and I haven’t had any desire to either. I don’t think he understands how fucked up I really am, and, even if he did, I don’t think he’d know what to say.

Idiotically, I think of Lundy. Because, as fucking stupid as it is, he’s the one I want to talk to.

I drink a whole lot of the beer, not tasting it so much as swallowing it. It does nothing to take the edge off.

And, as it has a lot since December, it hits me how isolated I’ve let myself get. I used to have more people to reach out to— when I was in college, when I was in the Academy, even when I was on patrol— but something happened to me when I took the transfer to Vice. As I traveled further and further down that division’s asshole, I let everything else in my life fall apart. Maybe it was the hours, or maybe it was the endless days I spent on street corners posing as a whore. It didn’t do shit for my self esteem.

And now, after what happened to me, I found I wanted to reconnect with them even less. I could hardly stand to talk to the few who called me while I was out on disability. I hated knowing how they saw me. I hated how _I_ saw me.

I drain the beer. Set the bottle down.

But it is what it is, and I know that I’m safe here, that nothing’s going to happen to me. That that’s true even if I don’t have anyone here to tell it to me.

I give myself another minute to breathe, to listen to the pounding of the rain and the wind buffeting against the windows. Shiver from the wet and the AC. Feel my feet ache from standing on heels all day. Detect the faint, foul scent of the scrap yard coming off my clothes.

And eventually it works. I gradually come down to something that could be calm, manage to unstick myself from the floor and head to the bathroom. I leave the door open when I get there, briefly make eye contact with myself in the mirror.

Set my service pistol next to the sink before turning away to grab a towel off the rack.


	46. The Abyss

__

_The Abyss  
_ _Setting: “Dex, Lies, and Videotape”_

* * *

I save my report and lean back in my chair when I notice Masuka walk into the briefing room. He heads directly from the entrance to the front, a couple folders gripped to his chest, catching Lundy’s eye as he goes. “Agent Lundy,” he says, “I’ve got the prelim reports you wanted, as well as the the coroner’s notes.”

“Thank you,” the agent replies, taking the folder Masuka’s holding out to him.

Dexter’s shuffled in after him, but he doesn’t join him up there, just stops silently next to me and Batista, his hands buried in his pants. It’s the first time I’ve seen him today. He didn’t come home last night, and I’ve been out of the station most of the day.

But I don’t say anything to him. The room’s gone silent, and all eyes are on Masuka. The little twerp has that same air of self-importance he always does whenever he gets to tell us anything, which is usually aggravating, except for once I want to hear what he’s got to say.

“Hit us with the highlights,” Lundy says, looking up from the folder.

“So far everything seems consistent with the BHB’s MO,” Masuka says. “Coroner’s putting the TOD at a couple hours before we found him. It looks like he was decapitated alive from several blows to the neck by a thick, smooth blade, possibly some kind of cleaver. He probably died in moments.”

I shift uncomfortably, resist the urge to rub my throat.

“A cleaver, huh?” Lundy says, looking vaguely offended. “It seems the Butcher has a taste for irony.”

When I look at Lundy, I notice Dex is looking at him too, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. I wonder if he came to the same conclusion or something.

“Yeah, seems like it,” Masuka says, not seeming to care either way. He flips open one of the folders he’s still holding and glances into it. “I didn’t find any plastic in his wounds,” he says, looking up, “but the coroner found the same kinds of depressions on his body as were present on our other victims. My guess is he was trussed up the same way the rest of them were, but the BHB unwrapped him before dismembering him.” He flips up a page. “I also found tape residue around the forehead. His head was probably tied down with duct tape or something.”

I cross my arms, do not allow myself to imagine that.

“It doesn’t look like he was gagged,” he continues. “No suspect trace in or around the mouth.” He pulls the bottom folder to the top and opens it. “The coroner found bruising around his neck that suggests he was strangled, but I found what looks like a small puncture wound in his neck too.” He takes out a glossy paper and presents it to the room. It’s a close up of a depression mark just above the ragged, bloody cutoff of Olson’s neck, with a small, red arrow pointing to it. “I’m running a tox on his blood, should know by end of day tomorrow if he’s got M-99 in his system or not.”

My mouth feels a little dry.

“What’s your theory?” Batista asks.

Masuka shrugs. “The Butcher might’ve choked him unconscious, then drugged him when he was out so he could transport him wherever he killed him.”

“Seems consistent with what we found at the house.”

I nod, as do most of us in the room. That’s where we all were most of the day.

“Do we have any idea if Olson was killed where we found him?” Batista continues.

Another shrug. “It’s only been a day, and taking apart that car and the rest of the scrap yard’s gonna take a week, but so far we haven’t found anything to tell us one way or the other.”

“Mr. Morgan,” Lundy says, looking in our direction. “What do you think?”

“I didn’t find blood anywhere in the car,” my brother says. “If he did kill him there, he was meticulous in cleaning up.”

“In other words, it seems unlikely?”

“It seems unlikely, yes.”

I’m thinking about the mat again, the one that was laid out under me and the table, and that fucking turkey tray. “Unless he used something to collect the blood,” I suggest a little sourly, unable to stop myself.

A few people glance at me, and I meet Lundy’s gaze with a sudden, weird blaze of defiance, even though I have no idea if I’m full of shit or not.

A half an awkward beat ticks by.

“Anything’s possible, I suppose,” Dexter amends.

Another beat. Lundy breaks eye contact with me to look at Masuka, and I follow suit. “Did you find anything else?” he asks.

He shakes his head as he glances through his folder again. “Nothing significant. Olson’s body was in the same kind of garbage bags as the other victims, but that doesn’t really mean anything.” A couple seconds pass as he skims. “The only thing that really differentiates Olson’s murder from the others is that he didn’t have a cut on his cheek.” He pauses. “And, you know, he wasn’t found under twenty meters of water.”

Lundy folds his hands on his desk. “It’s possible that our killer didn’t mark him because he killed Olson to make a point, and not for his usual reasons. Whatever those may be.”

“Seems plausible,” Masuka agrees.

“Do you have anything else to add, Mr. Morgan?” Lundy looks at my brother again.

He shakes his head. “My findings are consistent with Masuka’s.”

He nods. “Then I think we’ll wrap it here for today.” He closes the folder Masuka handed to him earlier. “Good work, everyone. Tomorrow let’s all convene here in the morning so we can figure out how to divide our resources for the day. Until then, have a good night.”

There’s nods around the room, and everyone echoes his sentiment back to him as they start drifting for the door.

Beside me, Batista gets up, stretches his back. “Night, Deb,” he says. “Dexter.”

“Night,” I reply.

“See you tomorrow, Angel,” my brother says.

Nodding, he walks over to Ramos, and they head out of the briefing room together, behind a couple feds. Meanwhile, Masuka hands the folders he’s still carrying over to Lundy, tells him good night.

“See you, guys,” he says to us. I wave as he turns and heads out too.

I don’t move from my chair though, instead glance back at my computer, where I was typing up my report before Masuka came in. I don’t really want to leave. I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to Lundy most of the day, and I know I won’t be able to go until I do.

“You’ll have the place to yourself tonight,” Dexter says, shifting my attention back to him. “I just have to grab some clothes, and then I’ll be out.”

“Yeah?” I say. “I guess you and Rita made up okay?”

He grunts noncommittally, and I take that as a yes. Feel a strange rush of relief.

“Well, have fun.”

“Thanks,” he says, though his expression is as bland as ever. “You going?”

“Uh…” I glance at Lundy, who’s organizing shit on his desk, then away, at the computer, back at my brother. “Soon,” I say. “I just want to finish up here.”

“Okay.” He nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, sister.”

“Yeah. See you later, bro.”

He looks from me to Lundy, and I wonder, with a little ping of paranoia, if he senses the undercurrent coming from my end of the room. But “Good night, Agent Lundy,” is all he says.

“Night, Morgan,” Lundy replies, flashing him a smile.

Dexter returns it, then walks out of the room, his hands still in his pockets. And, just like that, I’m alone with Lundy. Finally.

And he’s looking at me. I don’t know if he heard my excuse as to why I’m still here, but I don’t bother to pretend to be interested in the computer anymore. It’s not even worth the effort.

“Something up?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“About?” He seems a little guarded suddenly. It occurs to me that maybe he thinks I want to talk about the other thing, my idiocy at the scrap yard last night, even as I get up and check to make sure the hall is clear, but I don’t say anything until I’ve walked over and shut the door. When I turn back to him, he’s still sitting at his desk, watching me intently now.

“I know I said I didn’t want to know, but…” I start quietly, crossing my arms as I move back toward him, “I changed my mind.” I stop a safe distance from his desk, and he raises his brows, waits for me to clarify. “I want to know if you’ve found anything from digging into Brian Moser.”

His expression softens, and he opens his mouth.

“I don’t fu— I don’t want all the details,” I cut him off quickly, before he can voice whatever he was about to say. “But seeing Olson’s kind of brought all this shit back up again. I realized I wanted to know.”

He exhales, folds his hands on his blotter. For a moment that seems to stretch ad infinitum, he doesn’t reply. But then he does. “Honestly, I haven’t been able to make much headway,” he says. “Moser’s history is… murky, at best.”

I don’t know if I feel relieved or disappointed. “So you haven’t found anything?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that.” He taps his fingers on the desk, then leans back. “I’ve talked to a few of his known associates, the ones I could locate, anyway, but none of them could shed any light on our investigation. A lot of what they said about Moser was contradictory— I suspect he lied as compulsively to them as he did to his doctors.”

“His doctors?” I repeat.

“Yes.” He studies me for a second. “You do know he was institutionalized?”

“I didn’t.” And as much as I’m starting to regret bringing this up, I can’t help asking, now that I know, “Did you talk to any of them? His doctors?”

Another pause. “A few. But his primary doctor is dead.”

My breath goes cold in my chest. “He’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

I can see the answer written on his face before I voice the question: “How did he die?”

And I find myself holding onto his eyes like a tether, even as I see something like pity behind them. “He was murdered, shortly after Moser’s release from the hospital,” he says. “The Tampa police suspected him, but there was never enough evidence for an arrest, and he disappeared shortly after they questioned him. The next time he surfaced was fourteen years later, in 2004, here in Miami.”

“As Rudy Cooper,” I guess, sitting on the corner of the desk.

“Yes,” he says.

“And we don’t know anything about the time in between?”

He shakes his head. “Not much. We know he murdered the real Rudy Cooper up in New Jersey in 1998 and stole his identity, but his paper trail is both thin and sporadic. I suspect Cooper wasn’t his only alias.”

I swallow, stare off into space. Neither of us say anything for a bit, but then for some reason I find myself speaking. “He told me he lived in Paris for awhile, that he studied art at the Sarbonne.” I exhale. “Of course, he was probably full of shit.”

I can feel his gaze on me. “I could look into it, if you wanted me to.”

I shake my head. “I don’t fucking want to know,” I say, even though part of me does. “So he moved here for whatever reason, started murdering prostitutes, and just happened to run into a fellow serial killer in the night? There’s no evidence that he and the Butcher had some prior relationship?”

“Not that I can find.”

I meet his eyes again. “Are you still looking into it?”

He hesitates. “Yes,” he says, after a beat. “I’ve been trying to pin down his movements. There are already several unsolved homicides that I think can be linked to him, but I’ll save you the specifics.”

“Thanks,” I say mechanically, feeling cold. Suddenly I find I can’t remember why we’re talking about this.

Lundy lets me sit quietly for awhile, and I gaze at the pictures of the Butcher’s victims, not really seeing them. I’m remembering what Moser said to me after I woke up tied to the mast of the boat. That Rudy Cooper died for a good cause. I never looked into it, any of it, because I didn’t want to know. I still don’t.

I just can’t believe how fucking blind I was. That not a crumb of it was real.

And that he was fucking institutionalized…

“Are you alright?” Lundy asks eventually.

“I don’t know,” I say, looking back at him. I feel a little stronger as I meet his eyes. “Yeah,” I revise. “I’m okay.” I smile wanly at him as I get up. “I’m the one who asked. I don’t know what I was expecting you to say.”

He gets up too. “There isn’t a good way to package any of this.”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

He leans back against the desk, regards me for a second. “And you’ve been okay with what we saw yesterday?”

“Yeah.” I brush my hair behind my ear. “I’m fine. I mean, it’s all fucked up, I’m fucked up, but I’m not relapsing. Who knows, maybe I’m just getting numb to it.”

“But you’d let me know if it gets to be too much?”

I flash back to searching Dexter’s apartment with pistol in hand. To how much I wanted to call him, to have him reassure me. “Yeah,” I say, not sure if it’s the truth or not.

That softness is back in his face again, this time without the pity, and I feel something shift below my stomach. But it’s so buried in all this new shit to digest that it fades quickly.

“How about you?” I ask. “Has Olson’s death affected anything for you?”

“I’ll admit DC isn’t pleased about it, but they know we handled the situation as well as we could.”

“Did we though?” I can’t help asking. “Aren’t we responsible for what happened to Olson?”

“Maybe in hindsight.” He seems tired suddenly. “I shouldn’t have publicized his name and picture. It was hasty and irresponsible. But on the other hand we don’t know what Olson would’ve done if we’d been less aggressive about flushing him out. He might’ve gone after Henry again, or someone else.”

“So you agree with Batista?” I’m searching him now, genuinely wanting to know. “Did the Butcher do us a favor?”

He takes a moment to answer. “Maybe in some sense. I’m not going to pretend we aren’t taking advantage of it by letting the press know who we suspect killed him. But if you gave me back the last few days then, no, I wouldn’t have knowingly fed Olson to the Butcher.” He makes a face. “I don’t believe that ultimately we’re all doomed to become Nietzschian monsters.”

The name rings some distant bell, but I don’t know what he’s talking about, and I don’t want to ask. “Do you feel guilty?” I ask instead.

He nods. “Yes,” he says. Sincerely.

I don’t, I want to tell him. The fucked-up thing is that I don’t care that he’s dead. For some reason it doesn’t seem to matter to me that I can’t answer whether or not I believe he deserved it. Whether or not any of the people who were brought up from the bottom of the bay deserved it.

“Are you sure you’re handling all this okay?”

I snap back into focus. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s all just a lot to process.” I exhale. “Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks for talking to me. And thanks for… everything. For being so discrete.”

“Of course.”

Maybe I’m imagining it, or maybe I’m projecting it, but I feel like he wants to say something else. There’s something weirdly magnetic between us, tugging at me from the naval.

“I hope you have a good evening,” is what he says.

“You too,” I say, half wishing it’d been something else. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early.”

We smile at each other, and then I turn for the door. Open it and walk out into the hall.

My head is buzzing as I walk toward my desk, as I go over everything. Olson’s COD and Masuka’s report. Brian Moser, and all the things I didn’t let Lundy tell me. My sudden moral bankruptcy, or fatigue, or whatever the fuck it is.

I think about Olson’s house, filled with gun magazines and shot-up targets. The tack board filled with every news clipping ever printed about the Butcher. We found two pistols and a rifle, and long, rambling documents on his computer about John Henry and everyone else who’d ever wronged him.

Lundy was right yesterday when he called him a ticking time bomb. As fucked as it is, the Butcher probably saved at least one life by taking Olson’s.

That being said, I’d still shoot the fucker if I could.

I grab my purse from my desk and throw it over my shoulder, rearrange some of the shit I left piled here earlier. Throw away the half-finished coffee I forgot when we got back from the search. Shut down my computer.

Lundy’s still in the briefing room as I head to the elevator. He’s back in his chair and staring at the pictures of the victims, his brows furrowed. He doesn’t notice me looking, and I stop before he can, press the button for the elevator. Stick my hands in my pockets.

As I wait I remember the recording of the 911 call we listened to this morning, before we left for Olson’s place. The voice that came over the speaker was muffled and electrically modulated, like something out of some cheesy cop movie.

“ _911, what’s your emergency?”_

“ _This is a message for the FBI. Ken Olson is dead. You’ll find his body in the train car at Dade Iron & Metal. You know the one.”_

And then he hung up.

I think of Moser calling us to the Castillo scene. He didn’t bother disguising his voice. Then again, no one thought to listen to it until months after he died, when it didn’t even matter anymore. Think of him calling in Tony Tucci to dispatch, to me.

The doors open, and I step inside, hit the lobby button.

But even knowing it’d be analyzed, that we’d all hear it, the Butcher was just as brazen to call us there. To address the body directly to the FBI. Because, like Moser, he doesn’t think we’re smart enough to catch him.

I exhale as the doors close.

It’s just all so fucked. And I almost wish I didn’t know what I know.


	47. Killing Time

__

_Killing Time  
_ _Setting: “That Night, a Forest Grew”_

* * *

The drive from my brother’s apartment down to North Beach took less than ten minutes. I left with time to spare, so instead of heading straight to the complex I kept going down Harding, turned into the cluster of businesses on Collins, and parked next to a bakery. Now I’m sitting outside it at one of their tables, munching on a cheese arepa, a mud-black espresso steaming at my elbow.

It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m not at work. I took the day off today to meet an apartment manager about a place I might be interested in a couple blocks from here. Despite the lack of pool or in-unit laundry, it’s the first one that’s really caught my eye in this godawful, neverending apartment hunt, so I didn’t hesitate about requesting the day. Especially since there hasn’t been any real movement on the Butcher investigation lately.

It’s been almost a week since we were led by the nose to Ken Olson and the train car. To our collective frustration, forensics turned up diddly shit at the crime scene, and at Olson’s house. We suspect he was abducted there— one of his windows was cut open from the outside, and his car was still in his driveway —but we don’t know where the Butcher killed him, and we probably never will. I can’t shake the feeling that Olson died on the table we found him piled on, but I’ve kept it to myself. I don’t want to have to explain why. I can barely explain it to myself.

Meanwhile, Lundy followed through on releasing Olson’s death and his suspected killer to the press, and overnight the ads on Craigslist and bulletin boards and everywhere else dried up. To the newspapers, Olson’s death has transformed the Butcher into even more of a deranged sort of superhero, but there’s a new undercurrent of fear. Before, the Butcher’s victims were more of an abstraction, old bones rotting at the bottom of the sea, but the spectacle he made of Olson called up a bit of the Ice Truck Killer’s ghost. I don’t know whether or not it’s vindicating that I’m not the only one reminded of Moser’s gruesome little tableaus.

I take a sip of espresso.

The marina cameras haven’t come up with anything either. Our techs have been going over the footage with a fine-toothed comb, but so far there’s been nothing more interesting than seagull squabbles and the occasional drunken boater. But then again we have no idea how active the Butcher is. For all we know we’ve already seen him on the tapes, but if he only goes out to dump a body once or twice a year, they’ll probably be watching them for months before they see anything. Unless we get anything better in the interim.

I took some reports home with me last night, from Coral Cove, Turkey Creek, and Sunset Keys, as well as the private marinas who were willing to share information with us, but I didn’t find anything new. I’ve all but given up on getting something from the rental logs. Eventually I fell asleep with them piled all around me on the bed.

It pisses me off that we still have nothing, after all this time. That he left a body gift-wrapped for us and it hasn’t brought us any closer to finding him. Half of the detectives have gone back to digging through the Bay Harbor 18’s lives, as have I, but no dice there either. _Yet._

I’m working my way through the rest of the arepa when my phone buzzes. As I pull it out of my pocket, I see Lundy’s name on the caller ID.

I check the time before flipping it open— 8:43.  
“Hey, what’s up?” I answer, wondering what he’s calling about.

“Good morning, Debra,” he says. “I know you took the day off, but I figured you’d want to know about the new development, assuming you have the time.”

I lower the pastry. “I have the time,” I say, interest picking up. “What happened?”

“The _Miami Tribune_ received a 32-page manifesto this morning entitled ‘The Testament of Forbidden Truth.’ Supposedly, it was authored by the Bay Harbor Butcher himself.”

What?

“What?” I say, brows creasing.

“That was more or less my reaction.”

I lean back, looking at some midpoint between me and the lamppost. “Is it legitimate?” I ask.  
“We don’t know yet. The _Tribune_ faxed over a copy of it, and we’ve only just started going through it, but so far it’s looking credible. The manifesto mentions three victims’ names which we never released.”

I feel a little lost for words. “Which ones?”

“Michael Donovan, Oscar Sota, and Robert Thatcher.”

I helped ID Donovan, the suspected pedophile, but the other two I’m not as intimate with. “What was the context?”

“Listing their crimes. The manifesto also went into detail on Joseph Cepeda, Chad Carpenter, and Jacob Lurie, and he took credit for killing Ken Olson. If the information turns out to be true, we may know the location of several new victims. I’ve already sent agents to start following up.”

“Shit,” I say. For a beat I digest this, as a couple people leave the bakery and stop at the curb. “What the hell triggered this?” I ask finally, as they jay walk across the street.

“I don’t know. He may’ve been excited by all the attention he’s been getting for killing Ken Olson and wanted to take the opportunity to share his social commentary with the world.”

I imagine him sitting there at his desk, staring thoughtfully at the boards or something. “Maybe,” I say. “Still seems fucking random to me.” Or like something Moser might’ve done, to fuck with us, or to split our resources.

“In my experience, no matter how bizarre the behavior, there’s always some internal logic, and figuring out his will lead us that much closer to capturing him. This is the first real look we’ve had into his psyche.”

Assuming he isn’t just hollow all the way through, I think, but don’t say. “Glad you’re feeling so optimistic.”

“Always.” I can sense his dry smile. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your morning. I’ve got to organize our response to the _Tribune_.”

“Shit, I didn’t even think of that,” I say. “Are they printing it?”

“Eventually, but I’ve managed to keep it out of the papers today. I’m in the process of filing an injunction. In the end we won’t be able to suppress it, but I’d like to try to mitigate the damage as much as I can.”

I say the only thing I can think of, “Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, Debra.”

I shift in my seat. “I’ll probably come in later today, pick up a copy of the manifesto.”

“If that’s the case, would you mind bringing back the marina reports?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later today then.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll see you later.”

And with that we hang up.

After a second I reach for my coffee and take a sip, now caught up in this new shit. I wonder what’s in the manifesto, and why the hell this fuckwad would author it. I remember Moser mailing us the room marker from Marina View in a jar of blood, can’t help another twinge of anger at being jerked around again. I hope Lundy’s right, that by writing this the Butcher inadvertently put his head in a noose.

I drain the coffee, study the dregs.  
Even if the timing seems strange. Is this really him basking in the spotlight, or does he have some other reason for doing this? Is he taunting us? Is he trying to explain himself to the public? Was his latest murder so exciting to him, so justified, that he felt he had to boast about it?

I set down the cup.

I guess there’s no use speculating until I can actually take a look at the thing. In the meantime I need to leave for my appointment. With any luck, by the time I’ve reached the station I’ll finally have a place again, and I can hardly think of a better housewarming gift to myself than a copy of the demented ramblings of a psycho killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we never saw much of the contents of the manifesto, and we never saw the context of how the BHB victims were discussed in it, I’ve decided to run with my ideas, just to make this ep more interesting to work with. Like a lot of my handling of the BHB investigation, it walks that hair line between aligning with and violating canonical intention, but this is just yet another situation where the actual cop side of this didn’t seem to be given that much thought. But I guess at this point if you’ve gotten this far into my version of this season, you must be used to my… creative problem solving.


	48. The Testament of Fermented Bullshit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the text of the manifesto is taken from what I could read off the boards in this ep, while some is just crap I made up. Hopefully you don’t notice which is which. Additionally, typos and grammatical errors in the manifesto are purposeful, since they exist in the original text. I think it’s implied that Dexter made them intentionally.

__

_The Testament of Fermented Bullshit  
_ _Setting: “That Night, a Forest Grew”_

* * *

_Let us speak of society. The inescapable decline of modern society slides us closer and closer to our eventual fall. We have become the planet’s most deadly organisms. To all living things, particularly ourselves. Yet I am called monster. Maybe I am just one without a mask, in a species of the monstrous. My killings can never compare to the mass slayings of our political machines. Of our industrial polluters. Our madmen in hospitals. Our lives, our food, our attitudes all marched to the grave by the whim of their unseen hands. We are all killers. Would be tyrants if but given the chance. The child kills insects, compelled to proclaim his power over lesser things. As a man he hunts to show dominance over stronger creatures. Those who continue to strive down this path eventually move on to greatness. The truth becomes sickening in it’s nakedness. Philosophers of the time…_

Blah blah fucking blah…

I exhale, spread out several pages. Find myself skimming some other paragraph.

_I feel the burning of inspiration. It doesn’t let me rest. Like a machine always on. When I least expect it, the spark ignites and all colours become black…_

Uh huh.

_My mercy is in leaving no time to cry why me? Freed to be free. And to live one last true…_

_The sharp blade of justice. I spill blood in the name of those who cannot. Those too scared to resist the machine that crushes. My wrath is great, but spared to the innocent. No child need fear me, but to the men or women who would do harm, I am vengeance itself. I am the fury of the fallen angels. I am the rage of the oppressed made as deadly as the passage of…_

_The cut of steel makes the flesh real. Did you know you were a thing of flesh before the touch of death? Life contained in the tight bond of the skin?_

_Did you never wonder what it was to submit to that most seductive of impulses? To listen to that monster within you? To Cut? As I do._

I slide the page back, grab the next one, smooth some hair behind my ear.

I’ve already read this whole, steaming crap pile. This is my second round through. It seems to ramble on forever, a hundred times more snarled and demented than I could’ve imagined. It reminds me of similar monologues we went over in criminal psychology back in college, and it makes just as little sense to me now as it did then. To me this just sounds… I don’t know. Fucking batshit.

And through it all I can’t help thinking of Rudy, wondering if this is what the inside of his head sounded like. He always seemed so frank and articulate, even when he was duct taping me to a mast, and it’s impossible to consolidate that with this broken, incoherent garbage bag of thoughts. Before this I always pictured the Butcher as some secretive, vigilante double of the Ice Truck Killer, but now I realize he’s merely deranged. And I don’t know if that makes him or my ex-fiancé more terrifying, because it makes me wonder if Moser even was truly crazy.

“Have any revelations?”

I look up and over at Gabriel, who’s laying on the bed with his computer on his lap. I’m sitting on the floor with earbuds in and the pages of the manifesto fanned all around me. My own computer’s gone to sleep at my knee. I’m still listening to Chopin.

“What?” I say, even though I think I heard him.

“Have any revelations yet?” he repeats.

I feel a flash of annoyance, for no reason. “No,” I say, then look back down at the nearest page.

“Okay,” he replies mildly. He doesn’t say anything else, just goes back to typing.

He decided to write while I dig through this. With the _Ice Princess_ done, he told me he’s started working on some new, child-friendly anthology of a bunch of Icelandic stories I’ve never heard of.

We’ve been together most of the afternoon. I met him at the gym after he got off work, and we worked out, then went over to the Publix across the street and grabbed a couple subs and some potato salad. After lunch I went back to the station and picked up the manifesto, then met him here at his place. And then mostly ignored him to read it.

For no reason at all he’s grating my nerves.

I think it has something to do with Lundy, for reasons I don’t want to voice, even inside my own head. Either that or I’m just PMSing. Who knows, maybe a little of both.

I grab a different page.

… _other monsters. Worse monsters. Who hunt in the name of the Devil. Who’s souls were cleansed by the Cut of my…_

Yeah, yeah.

I keep skimming until I find what I’m looking for: Mike Donovan, the first victim named in the manifesto. I’ve read this section several times already.

_He was one such monster. A murderer and a pedophile hiding in God’s temple. His victims cried out for justice, and I heard their voices. I heard the voice of the Father directing me to His house in order that I may cleanse it. Before he died, Michael Donovan could not look upon what he had done. I took him to they’re bodies, but he could not face them. Even before death he could not face his sins. Yet still the world knows not what he has done. They mourn a man hidden under crocodile skin. I expose him now._

_Corey Balanti, 9. Tyler Kale, 9. Joseph Bigalow, 8. Their bodies lie at the coordinates 25.9187, -80.1336, in the three small graves he dug for them. Let society now cast it’s judgment. He has faced mine own, and I have cast him to Hell, whereupon he suffers forever._

I lower the page.

I wonder if it’s true. The coordinates he gave lead to the middle of nowhere in Oleta River State Park. The first time I read this I called Lundy about it, and he told me he’s already sent agents up there to check it out. If there really are three graves there, if there really are three dead kids up in the park…

It makes my stomach turn. I wonder how long they’ve been there. Donovan went missing last October, but who knows how long ago he killed them.

Jesus christ, little eight and nine-year-old boys.

And this smug, self-righteous piece of shit left them there. He knew what Donovan was doing, but he murdered him and left his victims to rot silently in their graves all the way out two stops past bumblefuck. I don’t know whether or not there even is a hell for Donovan to burn in— I hope there is —but I know the parents of these kids have been living in a very real one since their sons disappeared.

I take a breath, reorient my thoughts. Take a second to listen to the music, Lundy’s music. It reminds me distantly of Mom. She used to play stuff like this sometimes, on the upright she kept near the bay window. I used to sit on the bench with her and randomly bang the keys until she’d remove me to the window ledge. I couldn’t have been much younger than these kids were.

I let the breath go and grab another page, not really wanting to think about it. Not really wanting to listen anymore.

_Oscar Sota, another man of God. Another monster in camouflage. He used his confessional to swap guns and drugs. One of these guns ended up in the house of Stephen Barajas, 13, who shot himself in the head on the night of November 28th, 2003. Another ended up in the hands of Jose Trujillo, 19, who murdered Vasily Strelnikov, 48, a night manager of a 7-Eleven, for the $183 in his till._

Both names and stories track: I googled them. But it beats the motherfuck out of me how the Butcher found the connection when we didn’t.

_Greed was Oscar Sota’s true God. To the end he denied what he was responsible for. It was not until he felt the fury of my blade, of the wrath of God, that he claimed repentance. He begged for my mercy. Yet I judged him, and I killed him. Why? You may wonder. Creatures like Sota live in the darkest confines of the night, where the light and rules of the sun cannot reach. I travel between these worlds. I saw him for what he was. I saw him for…_

It goes on and on. He rambles for another half a page about the sun and the moon and the light of eternity and some other bullshit. If it means anything, I don’t know what.

And then he moves on to Robert Thatcher, another one of our victims who never had a rap sheet. The Butcher outlines the same story Ramos got from Thatcher’s mother— that he was a janitor who raped and murdered a high schooler named Alison Chou, who MMPD later found floating under an overpass in the Miami River. He confessed it to her, and she never told a soul in the nine years he was missing. His prints were in our system because he was a vet.

But the Butcher doesn’t give a clue as to how he found any of this out. Instead, his discussion of Thatcher is sandwiched between a full page of rants about the corporate-military agenda and abandoned, broken soldiers. Even though he blames the system for creating Thatcher, apparently that wasn’t enough to absolve him.

I skim it all again, hoping to find something I didn’t before. But it’s just as much a crazy-ass mess as it was the first time, and I can feel a headache coming on.

I rub my temple as I reach for the next page.

Chad Carpenter and Joseph Cepeda are the next two he discusses. They were found together, their body parts commingled and distributed between a couple Hefty bags. Both of their arms are missing, lost somewhere on the bottom of Biscayne Bay, or maybe inside a large fish somewhere, but we have most of the rest of them.

They were IDed off the initial DNA hits we got from CODIS. Both had a long history of assaults and abuse, both spent a couple decades in prison. It wasn’t hard to find their connection— they had neighboring cells for over six years, until Cepeda was released for good behavior in 1998.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what put them on the Butcher’s radar either. Shortly after Carpenter was released, the body of Melissa Morales, an 18-year-old, spring-breaking co-ed from Kansas City, was found beaten to death in a dumpster in an Edgewater construction site. Both Cepeda and Carpenter’s semen were found inside her. Miami Metro ended up releasing both their names and photographs to the media in the hopes of capturing them, but they were never found. Carpenter had disabled his anklet tracker the night he and Cepeda killed Morales, and the Butcher must’ve found them not soon after. Somehow.

I remembered the Morales case when we first IDed them. The murder happened during my first year on patrol, and it was a pretty big story. It sparked a mass hysteria over the rise in violent crime in Miami, and concerns that this might be the start of the end of the tourism industry in the city. Of course, seven years later hardly anyone remembers Melissa Morales, and SoBe is still clogged with cruise ships and New Yorkers.

The Butcher regurgitates much of what the news stories back then were saying, about recidivism rates and the incompetence of Miami’s law enforcement and criminal justice system. He blames us for not being able to fix or even effectively contain monsters like Carpenter and Cepeda, like some of the other murderers that were recently in the news, and like himself. I was mildly surprised he didn’t mention the Ice Truck Killer in his three-page tirade. I wonder if maybe he didn’t want to call attention to his relationship to him. It gives me a slight, bitter sense of satisfaction that we already know about it.

From the Morales murder the Butcher segues to Jacob Lurie, another documented domestic abuser and all-weather shitstick. After years of domestic complaints, his wife suddenly disappeared, and she was never found. The suspicion was that Lurie finally went too far and murdered her, but he denied any involvement and claimed that she had just run away. Without her body, there wasn’t a case to bring against him, and he was eventually released. Soon after, he disappeared too, though no one besides a couple crediting agencies seemed to notice, or care.

After ranting about the failures of the system some more, the Butcher gives another set of coordinates, this one way out west near the Everglades, just inside the Buffer Water Preserve, claiming that we’ll find Susan Laurie’s bones there. Apparently he found her too. Lundy’s also got agents on it.

And I’m just sitting here.

I exhale and push my fingers into my eyebrows, push back my hair. The headache’s getting worse.

It all pisses me off, that he can fucking direct us like this. Again. How the fuck did he even figure all this out? How did he find these people? What was he doing that we weren’t? Somehow in his endless tirades against the government and all its institutions, he fails to mention how he’s been managing to do what he does.

I want to drag this fucker in and ask him. And I want to ask this self-satisfied fuck why he didn’t bother calling in any of these coordinates before this. If he really gave a shit about them, if he really was “avenging the silent,” why he felt content to leave them rotting in holes. It makes me wonder how many other bodies he’s sitting on, because I don’t believe for a second that the 20 we know about are his only victims.

“You alright?”

I look up again at Gabriel. His face is still kind of annoying to me, but I push the feeling away. There’s no reason for it.

“I don’t know,” I say, pulling out my earbuds before letting my hand drop. “Yeah,” I revise. “This is all just fucked up.”

He glances from me to the papers I’ve spread all over the place. “Anything I can help with?”

I shake my head.

“Want to take a break?”

I open my mouth to say no, but change my mind. “Yeah,” I say, rolling to my feet. He sets his computer aside as I get up. “How’s your shit going?” I ask, glancing at the screen. It’s split between a word document and an e-book.

“Good,” he says, nodding. “Just doing some research.”

I stick my fingers in my pockets. “Yeah? About what?”

He grins up at me. “Old Icelandic beliefs about the nighttime.”

My own smile is reflexive. “Anything interesting?”

“All of it.”

The scary thing is that I think he’s serious. But there’s something vaguely endearing about it, especially in light of all the crap I’ve been wading through.

“Scoot over,” I say, moving to sit next to him. He slides his laptop further away as he shifts aside, and I take the empty space, adjust the pillow against the headboard before settling back. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s 5:38.

“You getting hungry?” he asks, apparently having noticed me check the time.

“Not really.” I lean my arm against my knee, as he leans against me. “Are you?”

He shrugs. He’s still got that dumb smile on his face. “I could eat,” he says.

There’s something wrong with me, I think as I look at him. He’s so fucking cute and uncomplicated, and he doesn’t seem even mildly offended at how much of an asshole I’ve been most of the evening. But for as much as I like sitting here with him, I still want to get up and walk out the door and drive back to the station so I can talk to Lundy about the manifesto.

And only about the manifesto.

“You sure you’re alright?” Gabriel asks. He’s searching me.

I wonder what he sees. “Yeah,” I say again. I smile and take his hand, whether to reassure him or myself I’m not sure.

“You excited about the apartment?” he asks.

Truthfully I’ve barely thought about it since I got the manifesto.

I did like the apartment in person just as much as I did the pictures. For a one-bed, one-bath, and for the price, it’s enormous, and it’s only a five-minute walk to the beach. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who’s interested. I submitted my application and filled out all the necessary shit, so at this point all I can really do is wait to hear back.

“Mm hm.” I nod. “I just hope I get it.”

“I’m sure you will.” He rubs my hand.

Randomly, I feel annoyed again. I want to ask him why, what makes him so sure.

Then I force myself to take a breath. Unclench. Decide not to be a self-absorbed jackass for two seconds.

“Tell me about these Iceland nighttime beliefs,” I say.

“Really?” I wish he didn’t look quite so surprised.

“Yeah. I wanna know what’s so interesting.”

“Okay, yeah, sure.” He seems genuinely pleased. He lets go of my hand as he leans forward to grab his laptop and pull it toward him. After setting it on his lap, he snakes his arm around mine, then scrolls up on the e-book. “Lemme see,” he murmurs to himself, stopping on a page for a second before scrolling again.

In the seconds I have before he finds whatever he’s looking for, I try to evict all thoughts of Lundy and the Bay Harbor Butcher from my mind. Try to be engaged. Try to act like I’m his girlfriend and he’s my boyfriend and I definitely, absolutely want to be here.

Try, and somewhat succeed.

I lean my chin against his shoulder. And in the quiet I can hear the muted notes of a piano coming from the floor. It’s the Chopin, leaking from my earbuds. I recognize it as the first one I bought, “Nocturne No. 2 in Eb Major.”

I close my eyes as I listen to it, mentally fill in what I can barely hear. Because even if it isn’t really my usual thing, it is beautiful, in its own way. And it reminds of Lundy, of what he said about peaceful places.

And then Gabriel starts talking, and it shatters the moment.


	49. Skank

__

_Skank  
_ _Setting: “That Night, a Forest Grew”_

* * *

And suddenly it’s all become so very, painfully, crystal fucking clear.

I adjust my bag on my shoulder as I stomp down the complex steps, anger and disappointment swirling in my chest, exhaustion pulling the rest of me toward the ground. I was so prepared to drop onto the couch and fall right asleep, but instead I’m going back to my car with my overnighter and no clear destination in mind. There was no fucking way I could stay there, with that bone-white vampire in the apartment, and with Dexter and all those fucking candles. What the fuck is he thinking? What the fuck is wrong with him? And who the _fuck_ is she?

Rita broke up with him, he says. Sure. I guess it’s just a wild coincidence that 24 hours later he’s got that English cunt digging through his fridge.

_Pardon my tits._

I’m grinding my teeth as I get off the stairs and head for the gate.

How long has he been cheating on her? Is that what he was doing in Naples in that motel room near the beach? I never could understand what possessed him to drive all the way over there for one night in the middle of the week. And all those other nights he said he was with Rita, was he really?

I can’t believe he would do this. Rita and those kids love him. I’ve envied their relationship since practically the day it started. My brother was cruising solo for so long before I set them up, for fucking years and years— I can’t even remember the last chick he saw seriously before her— but once they met they had an instant connection. They were perfect for each other. Rita was so broken and so fucked up, and Dex was just as placid and boring as he’s always been, and they brought out the best in each other. I barely recognize Rita anymore from who she was the night I rescued her from Paul.

What happened? Did he fucking get _bored_ with their perfect fucking relationship?

I’m so fucking disappointed in him.

I yank open the gate and turn for the lot. I have no idea where I’m going, what I’m going to do when I get to my car. Unfortunately, I don’t really have any options. I don’t have anyone I can call at 3AM for a slot on their couch anymore.

When I reach it, I open my car door and throw my overnight bag onto the passenger seat. I change my mind just before tossing my purse next to it, instead dig through it and extract a cigarette and a lighter before dropping it on the center console.

Lighting up, I turn and lean against the side, ball up the lighter and my keys in my palm as I exhale. I don’t know what to do.

I guess I could go to the station and find somewhere to curl up there, but fuck does the thought not appeal to me. I’d almost rather just use my bag as a pillow and sleep on the back seats.

I turn and look through the window, contemplating it, wondering if there’s somewhere better I could park. But I can barely think about it. The image of those pale, white tits are seared into my retinas. It would be funny if it wasn’t so unbelievably fucked.

How could he do this? How could I not have realized what a piece of shit he is?

I never would’ve expected this from him. He seemed so happy with her, happier than I’ve ever seen him, happier than I even knew he was capable of being. Rita’s done more to defrost him than anyone or anything else ever has. What, it wasn’t enough? He needed to go out and fuck Morticia?

_Why?_

And where the fuck did he even get that many candles? How long did it take him to light them all?

I suck on the cancer stick, pull it out of my mouth and stare irritably at the road.

What am I going to do?

I still have all the shit I’d packed earlier to stay at Gabriel’s. Now that I’m standing here I hate myself for leaving. I was just angry at myself, and I couldn’t sleep with him next to me. He wrapped himself around me as he fell asleep, and, despite it, despite him, in the silence all I could think about was Lundy. It was driving me crazy that I couldn’t shut it off. And what’s worse is I knew as I laid there in the quiet, as he hugged me closer to his chest, that we’re not going to work. I knew it like it was a pronouncement from fucking on high. Because even though I know I can never act on my feelings toward Lundy, I know as long I have them I’ll never be able to really be with Gabriel, and he deserves better than what little I can give him. Even as we were fucking around I wasn’t all the way with him, and I found myself doing things I didn’t really want to do just to compensate for it.

After over an hour of torture, I finally rolled out of bed, and when he woke up I told him I’d remembered I’d forgotten to take care of some nonspecific work thing and I needed to go. I don’t know if he believed me, but he said okay, asked if he’d see me tomorrow. And for some godforsaken reason I said yes before running out the door.

I pull anxiously on the cigarette.

How terrible of a person would I be if I called him? It’s almost three in the morning.

But on the other hand I only just left. It’s been like 20 minutes. He might still be awake.

Might.

There’s just no fucking way I can stay here. And I don’t want to sleep in my car. Or at the station. And I sure as shit don’t want to try to find a hotel room.

“Fuck,” I mutter to my cigarette. Once again picture Lila and her tits. Remember what I overheard as I was making my way out of the apartment.

_Don’t worry. She just needs some time to adjust, that’s all._

_Time to adjust…_ I repeat it mockingly in my head.

And then I take one last puff, drop the stick, grind it out under my shoe.

The worst part is I’m barely better, being kept up by thoughts of another man when Gabriel’s been nothing but sweet to me. I’m just as much a pile of shit.

But I’m also exhausted. And at least I haven’t actually done anything.

Right?

“Fuck,” I say again as I reach into my car for my purse, dig around for my phone. I stare at it for a beat once I find it, eventually slide inside the car and lean back against the seat. All I can think is it’s either with him or in here, among all the random crap that’s been accumulating in my car since the last time I cleaned it. Which was awhile ago.

That’s the thought that does it.

“I’m a terrible person,” I mutter to myself as I dial. As I press the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” he answers, sounding groggy.

I fucking hate myself. I am such a bag of shit. “Hey, it’s me,” I say. I’m such an asshole.

“Deb?” He sounds confused. “What’s up?”

There’s a skank in my brother’s apartment. “Turns out I can’t stay at my brother’s place tonight,” I say. “I hate to ask, but would you mind if I came back?”

“Sure,” he says, because of course he would. “What happened?”

“He has…” I try to come up with something civil, “ ‘company.’ ”

He snorts, and I hear the phone adjust. “Yeah. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just come in when you get here. I might be asleep.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. See you soon.”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

He mumbles something, then hangs up.

I exhale as I lower the phone. He’s so fucking nice, and I’m so fucking terrible. But I just want so badly to sleep, and to get the fuck away from here.

I think about the apartment I saw this morning as I stick my keys in the ignition and turn the engine over, as I pull out of the lot. I hope to god I get it. In these past couple months, I’ve never felt more homeless than in this moment. I’d give almost anything right now just to be able to walk in there and sleep on the bare floor.

But I’m grateful that at least I have somewhere else I can go, even if I don’t deserve it, even if I don’t belong there. Even if I am a shitbag.

Fuck me, all I can see are those stupid fucking tits as I turn onto Bay Harbor Drive.


	50. Evil

__

_Evil  
_ _Setting: “That Night, a Forest Grew”_

* * *

_Can you not see that this world is rotten? Can you not hear the cries of the downtrodden? Can you not understand that liberty is worth more than just ribbons?_

_If I didn’t Cut them down, how many more would have suffered? And died? Your laws couldn’t hold them or protect their victims, but in my Cutting Courtroom, with their sins laid bare, they confessed their crimes to me. And thus I pronounced them guilty. And thus I sent them to Hell. And thus I Cut away that rot and helped the Earth to heal. No man escapes the cruel knife in the end, whether it mine or society’s._

My chair creaks as I adjust in my seat. Between how many times I read this shit last night and how many times we’ve gone over it together since this morning, I can practically recite the manifesto with my eyes closed. So far I haven’t come to any shining revelations, except that I’m glad Masuka finally went back to his hole. If I had to hear one more fucking word about the psycholinguist at MIT I would’ve strangled him to death with his own intestines, room full of federal witnesses be damned.

As I flip the page I glance around the room. For now we’ve abandoned group discussion. By 3 we’d all expressed our opinions, and now we need time to digest everyone else’s perspectives. I highlighted the stuff Batista mentioned as being literary references, since I sure as hell didn’t recognize them, and I’ve been trying to consolidate them with my own interpretations, but at this point my notes are only getting more and more convoluted. This thing reads like every wingnut conspiracy theorist and blog poster and fundamentalist wackadoo on the internet run through a blender. It never even occurred to me before reading this that the Butcher is religiously motivated. I’m still not convinced he really is.

But what bothers me, privately, is that no matter how much I dig, nothing in here sounds like Brian Moser. Nothing. I don’t believe Moser killed for any reason other than that he enjoyed it. He got off on it. He _wanted_ to take their lives, to take my life, and he wanted us to die helpless, wanted us to know it. That’s why he never drugged them. That’s why he left me tied to that table for hours in the dark.

The Butcher doesn’t mention anything like that. It’s just pages and pages of ramblings about religious shit and social inequality and political machines and monsters wearing human skin and vigilante justice. It’s like he believes he’s fucking Batman. He kills because it’s what he has to do to make the world a better place; it’s his particular niche in the circle of life. Nowhere in this steaming pile of crap does he mention that he does it because he likes it.

But it’s impossible for me to accept that. He’s killed 21 people, that we know about— at least two a year. He ties them down so he can do whatever he wants to them, for as long as he wants. He ritualistically cuts open their cheeks while they’re still alive. Half of them he dismembered alive. Is it that in his mind their crimes vindicate their torture? Or is it that he just enjoys it?

And if he really is so scrupulous, so determined to rid the world of evil one corpse at a time, then why would he have had a relationship with the Ice Truck Killer at all? Wouldn’t Moser, of anyone, have deserved an appointment in his “Cutting Courtroom”? Or were all those women he murdered just as meaningless to the Butcher as they were to him? Is that why he never stopped him? Is that why he couldn’t help leaving him Valerie Castillo as a gift?

Could it be that these are 32 pages of horse shit, any and every justification he could reach for to cover for the fact that deep down he’s just a monster too?

I steal a look at Lundy.

He’s the only one who hasn’t said anything yet. He’s sat quietly through everyone’s arguments, and I’ve been forced to color in his thought bubbles. I wonder if he’s waiting for us all to leave so he can stay in here with his jazz and the manuscript and go through it all in peace. I wonder how long it’s going to be before he comes up with something the rest of us never thought of that’ll break the case in half.

He glances up, and our eyes brush. His expression is just as zen, and impassable, as ever. I think of what he said about me listening to Chopin just before I left to take my lunch. It’s not the fucking dead-ass composer, I want to tell him. Not the peacefulness of the music nor the vague memories of Mom. It’s just you, Lundy. Every fucking fascinating, inscrutable, untouchable inch of _you_.

The eye contact lasts a second. In the next, his phone rings.

I look back down at the manifesto as he answers, stare blindly at a page. Now that I’m not thinking about the Butcher anymore, I’m thinking about Lundy, about my feelings. About Gabriel. About what a piece of shit I am.

And about Dexter shacking it up with fucking Amy Winehouse. Because if I’m a piece of shit, he’s a ten-foot pile of it.

I’ve only seen him once today, briefly, a sighting from across the hallway. I was too disgusted to talk to him. I still am.

“I’ve just received word.”

I look back up at Lundy, as does the rest of the room, and everyone goes quiet. His face is suddenly grim, and I feel something sink just below my navel.

“Our agents up at Oleta Park have turned up a body,” he continues, now that he has our attention, “and the GPR report indicates that there may be two other bodies beside the first.”

“Is it a kid?” Winter, one of the FBI agents, asks.

“The body is still in the ground, but Dr. Yamada believes it probably belongs to a child, yes.”

There’s silence for a beat. Beyond the briefing room, the rest of the station seems to buzz like static.

Yesterday Lundy sent teams to both the Oleta River State Park and the Buffer Water Preserve, to the coordinates the Butcher left in the manifesto. Fortunately, with both locations being state land, no warrants were necessary. Neither of them found anything, so today they expanded their search radii. Dr. Reiko Yamada, the anthropologist working out of the coroner’s office, went along to direct the efforts to locate Michael Donovan’s supposed victims.

I think all of us were hoping that it would be a bust.

“I’d like all my agents here to head up to the park immediately to rendez-vous with our team there,” Lundy goes on, getting to his feet. “This could get out of hand quickly, and I want to make sure we control the response to this, especially once word reaches the _Tribune_. Detective Ramos,” he looks at him, “I’d like you to go as well.”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

Lundy looks around the room, at each of us. The feds are getting up too. “This is grave news,” he says, “and I think it may all but confirm that we’re also eventually going to find the body of Susan Lurie. I know the temptation is going to be to redirect our energies toward them, but for the moment I’d like the rest of you to stay focused on the manifesto. The FBI can handle the recoveries and the notifications. After all,” his expression darkens, very slightly, “we already have their killers.”

“Did they find anything else with the body?” Batista asks.

Lundy shakes his head. “No. Not yet.”

He nods, looking disturbed. He’s probably imagining the same thing I am: a row of dead kids, their bones sticking at odd angles from the dirt.

“Agents, Detective Ramos, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me to the hall,” Lundy says, tucking his reading glasses into his suit.

They all nod, and together they walk out of the briefing room. The remaining four of us watch them go.

“Shit,” Batista says after a beat, and I look over at him. He’s sharing the left side of my desk.

“I guess Donovan really was a pedophile,” Sanchez says. He and Cook have been using a cabinet over in the corner as a desk.

“Guess so,” I say.

No one says anything else. The silence is heavy.

Donovan was one of the victims we’d never been able to link concretely with any crime, beyond him being a POI in a sexual assault case against a minor in Kentucky, and again in the disappearance of one of the boys the Butcher names in the manifesto a couple years ago. The kiddie diddling choir director almost seemed like too cliché a narrative, but since he was found in pieces at the bottom of Bay Harbor we just assumed it was true, despite Lundy’s warnings. And now we’ve got three dead kids to prove it.

Part of me is glad I wasn’t asked to go up and help with the retrieval, that Donovan happened to have been assigned to Ramos instead of me. The fact that their killer was also murdered, and violently at that— if I remember, he died from a power saw shredding his throat to, and then through, the bone —won’t do much to soften the sight.

I look back at the manuscript.

Is it wrong that is softens it at all? It’s the same muddied moral waters we’ve all been wading through since the IDs on the Butcher’s victims started coming in, since we found Olson in the train car. The Butcher himself and half the newspapers romanticize him as some kind of adjudicator, and the rest of us are constantly falling in and out of the same opinion. Only Lundy seems to be immune to it.

_And to the criminals, the low-lives, the murderers, the tyrants and dictators, I am death itself. I say this not to create fear, but as a statement of emotionless fact. The Law will not contain me._

I stare at the words, not really absorbing them.

Did he do the world a favor in killing Donovan? Would there be more kids in those holes if the Butcher hadn’t sawed him to pieces? Does that make it right?

I think of Moser again. I can’t pretend that the thought of him having been captured and murdered by the Butcher before I’d ever had the chance to meet him doesn’t appeal to me. I can’t pretend that I’m not a little relieved that he’s dead. Because even though I never got a modicum of closure, even though I still don’t know why the fuck he killed himself instead of trying to run for the hills, the thought of him being alive and in chains somewhere up north, the thought of having to see him again from across a courtroom, makes my skin crawl. I would’ve faced him, would’ve flipped the fucking switch myself, but I’ll never have to. He took the choice from me.

Is it better that way? Is there really much of a difference between my desire to deliver a state-sanctioned dose of potassium chloride into his veins and the Butcher’s power saw? Would it have done anything to bring back what he killed inside of me?

I don’t know.

I don’t know about Donovan either. Or Olson. Any of them. I wish we’d been the ones to catch them, but part of me is just glad they’re out of the picture, and I don’t know whether or not that speaks to my own, internal evil.

Fuck, they were just little kids…

Lundy walks back into the room, and we make eye contact again, briefly, as he passes. I want to ask him what he thinks about any of this. I can tell he doesn’t share this ugliness that’s inside me, that I don’t remember ever being there so sharply before.

But I don’t. I look away from him as he sits back behind his desk. Go back to the manifesto as he reaches for his phone and dials DC to tell them about the bodies that were exactly where we were told they would be in the woods.


	51. Over the Causeway

__

_Over the Causeway  
_ _Setting: “That Night, a Forest Grew”_

* * *

Well, that could’ve been a lot worse.

I’m smoking again as I take the turn onto 125th Street, my thoughts scattered in ten different directions. I’ve got my top down, and in a disconnected way the warm night breeze feels good against my skin.

I left Gabriel’s a couple minutes ago. When I got to the doorway I stopped to tell him goodbye, and it turned into a brief, sexless, half-apologetic hug at the threshold. Because even if he isn’t the right one for me, and I can’t be the right one for him, at the end of the night he’s still a sweet guy. He still put up with me despite all my fucked-up, schizo shit, and he never did a thing to hurt me. I feel like crap that I used him as a rebound, but, to his credit, if he put that label to it, he barely seemed offended.

As I walked away, some small part of me wondered if that really was the last time I’ll see him, if I even definitely want it to be.

Who fucking knows.

I flick the cigarette toward the double yellow as I slow for a light.

Now I’m heading back toward my brother’s apartment. With Gabriel out of the picture, I don’t actually have anywhere else I can go, and even though I’m pissed at Dexter and a little afraid of what I might find when I get there, for the time being it’s still my home. If I have to, I’ll put a bag over my head and pop an Ambien and go to sleep on the couch.

Or try to, anyway, if I can manage to stem the now free-flowing torrent of thoughts about Lundy.

They overwhelm me as the light turns green, and as I keep going for the causeway. Because I’m an unbelievable pile of shit. Because that part of me that’s totally retarded, that won’t shut the fuck up lately, is now working ceaselessly to come up with a way to bring it up to him, just to see if there’s any chance at all. I can’t stop thinking about our hug at the Allapattah scrap yard, about all our conversations, about all the things I need, half-desperately, to confess to him. And I can’t kill this _want_ , to touch him, to peel away his suit and his tea and his fucking professional veneer and finally see what’s underneath them.

Because I think I’m a little in love with him.

Because I _know_ I’m a little in love with him.

As I idle at the light in front of the causeway behind a bunch of other cars, I crave another cigarette, but I curb the impulse, reach for my water bottle instead. I drain the last of it, toss it on the passenger-side floor. Maybe I’ll remember to bring it with me up to the apartment so I can throw it away. Maybe, but probably not.

For the thousandth time, my thoughts slide back to what I’d say to Lundy, if I could say anything.

_I was so fucking broken before you forced me to face what happened to me. I’m still broken, but you make me feel like I won’t always be, like I don’t have to be. Like I’m not just the sum of every bad decision I’ve ever made. Like I’m not just what Moser made of me. You gave me that strength._

The Range Rover in front of me lurches forward, and I tap the gas, follow the trail of bumpers onto the Broad Causeway. I’m still fighting the need for another cigarette.

_You keeping me on this case is the only reason I can sleep at night. You’re what yanked me out of the tailspin. If you hadn’t knocked some sense back into me, I’d still be in that fucking garage. He’d still be killing me, over and over, every night, forever._

_You don’t understand how fucking grateful I am._

_You don’t understand how desperate I was getting. Even I don’t know what I might’ve done, just to get away from him. Just to be able to take a fucking breath._

Something painful uncoils in my guts at the silent, imaginary articulation. I don’t think I could ever tell him how bad it got, those nights when I was strung out and furious and so, crushingly terrified. I haven’t told anyone, not even Dexter, not even when he caught me falling off the deep end, or when I broke down on his shoulder. They were feelings I couldn’t force into words. That at this point I just want to bury and forget.

I blink as I realize I’m turning into the lot in front of my brother’s complex. I wasn’t paying attention to the last several minutes of my life.

Yeah, what else is new?

I hunt out a space, then pull into it, kill the radio, bring the roof back up, grab my purse and bag. As I get out of my car I debate having one last cigarette before going through the gate, but I don’t give into it. A vague and utterly meaningless thought that I really should quit flits through my head as I lock the door and start making my way toward the apartments.

Less than two minutes later I’m standing in front of my brother’s door, hesitating. I wonder if I’m about to walk into another fuckfest or, worse, them innocently eating takeout or something on the couch. Of course, that’s assuming she even eats solid foods…

Whatever.

I stick the key in the lock and open the door. “I’m home,” I call as I walk in, and I immediately spot Dexter sitting as his desk in front of his laptop.

“Hey, Deb,” he says, barely looking up.

I shut the door, then set my shit on the counter. “We alone?” I ask as I head, automatically, for the fridge.

“Yeah,” he says.

I glance back at him as I open it. He seems more toneless than usual. I’m not sure if he’s upset or just preoccupied, but he doesn’t say anything as I dig through one of the drawers, finally come up with a cheese stick and some salami. Before closing it, I pause, then grab a beer too.

Dexter continues saying nothing as I put the food on the counter and open the bottle. As I take a nice, big gulp. As I open the salami package and pull out a little round of meat. As I eat the thing, and then another.

I decide not to break the silence, even if it means spending the rest of the night saying nothing, even if it means not getting to talk about Gabriel or my feelings. I’m still pissed at him for being such a fuckwad.

At long fucking last he talks, after I’ve eaten the cheese stick and drained the first beer, as I’ve returned to foraging for food, this time in the pantry.

“I thought you were spending the night at Gabriel’s,” he says.

I look back at him as I take out a carton of Pringles, then lift the lid and check inside. Half empty.

“I broke up with him,” I say somewhat flippantly, pulling out a chip.

“What?” He still seems a couple miles away even as he meets my eyes. “Why? What happened?”

I shrug. “Nothing, really.” Except that I’m a piece of shit, and I’m in love with another man. “I just realized we weren’t going to work out.” I consider telling him about Lundy, but I’m not sure what his reaction would be, and for now I think I want to keep it to myself. Especially since it’s doomed anyway.

I eat another Pringle as I come around the counter and lean against it. “What’s up with you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says.

I give him a look.

Discomfort flashes across his features before promptly fading again. “Cody called,” he admits after a second.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything else. I keep glaring at him, sick and tired of this shit where getting information from him is like extracting teeth.

“He wants me to go to his school tomorrow,” he continues finally. “He’s got a presentation on Saudi Arabia and he wants me to be there.”

I pull out another Pringle. “And?” I ask before eating it.

“I want to go.” He pauses. “I think I will.”

“What does Rita think?”

“I haven’t asked her.”

Jesus christ, you are a stone cold moron, Dex. “What do you mean you haven’t asked her?”

“I don’t know.” He looks at me somewhat helplessly, or guilelessly. Idiotically. “Do you think she would mind?”

I stare at him incredulously. “Jesus christ, Dex, you are a stone cold fucking moron. You break up with her to fuck Elvira and you think it’s okay for you to just show up at her son’s school and pretend like nothing’s changed?”

“She broke up with me,” he says defensively, as if it matters.

I cross my arms, still holding the Pringles tin. “Yeah, and I’m sure it’s just wild happenstance that 24 hours later you’ve got a naked skank and a fucking shrine erected to her in your apartment.”

“Her name is Lila.”

I eat another chip, don’t bother to construct a reply to that.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “So what do I do? He wants me to go. I want to go.”

“I’d start by calling Rita,” I say. “I wouldn’t hold my breath though. If I were her I probably wouldn’t pick up the phone.”

“She’ll answer,” he says, with all his usual confidence.

“Will she?” I ask rhetorically, then set the tin on the counter, recross my arms. “I don’t know what makes you think you still have the right to be there, whether he called you there or not.”

He doesn’t reply. His gaze is focused on some middle distance between us.

“Was it worth it?” I ask when he remains silent. “Was losing Rita and those kids really worth whatever the fuck you’re doing with Lila?”

He meets my eyes again, but he’s still as far away as he’s been this whole conversation. “I don’t know yet,” he says.

I search his face for some hint of remorse, or regret, or any sign at all that he ever gave a shit about Rita, but it’s as blank as ever. It pisses me off.

Wordlessly, I grab my second beer off the counter and head for the door. When I get outside I close it behind me, then lean over the railing, take a drink as I look down at the pool, and then the ocean, and then the lights from Bay Harbor. From some other apartment I can hear a muted bass line, feel it going through my boots.

_thump thump tha-thump_

I don’t know what’s wrong with us: me breaking up with Gabriel for Lundy, Dexter breaking up with Rita for a pale bog witch. Then again neither of us have ever been anything but idiots in the romantic department, my serial killer fiancé aside. The problem is I never learn from my mistakes, and Dex never gets far enough in his relationships to make any.

But this is unbelievably moronic, even for him. Where did he even _find_ her?

_thump thump tha-thump_

Suddenly, I want to smoke again, so bad I almost taste it. I can smell my last cigarette all over me, and it might drive me crazy if I don’t get out of these clothes and take a shower soon.

Exhaling, I drink more beer to try to wash the phantom taste away. It takes a few swallows before it makes any difference, until I’m almost to the end of the bottle.

I swish the liquid around with a distant note of disappointment, look from it back to Bay Harbor. My thoughts slide slowly, inevitably, back to Lundy as I finally drain it. To fragments of a hundred conversations. To whether or not I’m imagining that he feels something for me too.

I can feel the tension mounting. I know I’m not going to be able to keep a lid on it, as fucking stupid as it is. If I am imagining it, if there really is nothing there, I’m just going to create an embarrassing clusterfuck for both of us. And then I’m going to have to walk off the roof. But even knowing that, I also know I’m not going to be able to stop myself.

I look dolefully at the empty bottle, wishing it would magically refill itself, or that I didn’t have to go back into the apartment for another. I’m not quite ready to see my brother’s face again. He has something and he’s willfully throwing it away. At least I don’t think I’m wrong about Gabriel.

But about Lundy?

I sigh, tap the bottle.

_thump thump tha-thump_

I don’t know. It’s getting too late to think, and at this point I need to either shower or go grab another cigarette before I implode.

So I turn for the door, not entirely having decided on which.


	52. Escalate

__

_Escalate  
_ _Setting: “That Night, a Forest Grew”_

* * *

The room feels deafeningly quiet after the past two days of constant back and forth. Lundy’s words killed all of our fervor, and, at least for those of us on Miami Metro’s end of the table, replaced it with something acrid. I keep seeing Lundy’s face after Batista asked him how he could be so sure that the Butcher was law enforcement.

“ _I suppose we can’t be. Yet.”_

The finality of that statement was punctuated by his phone ringing. No one said anything as he walked out of the room to take the call, but, within moments, everyone from Homicide had glommed around Batista. We’re still grouped en masse against the feds, and still circling the same points, even though Lundy left the room over ten minutes ago. Batista, Ramos, and Sanchez are rejecting the agent’s theory outright; Cook is on the fence; and Masuka still believes in his computer-generated profile, has spent most of the conversation griping that no one’s listening to him.

I’m the only dissenter. I agree with Lundy. It’s the only interpretation that makes any sense of the manuscript: that the entire thing really is just bullshit. I couldn’t see how someone as careful and methodical as the Butcher could have such a demented, contradictory snarl of ideologies. And I can’t see any of it in what I remember about Moser, before or after he took off his mask.

Everyone side-eyed me when I told them that— everything except my last opinion —but no one said anything beyond lukewarm grunts of acknowledgment. They didn’t have to either. I can read between their lines. They think I’m Lundy’s bitch.

And who the fuck knows, maybe I am, but not over this. An icy note of dread has been spreading up from my guts, down through my extremities. Because suddenly it’s not just the manuscript that makes sense. It’s the rest of it. All of it.

Batista and Ramos are still talking about the Butcher’s obvious religious convictions, pointing at highlighted sections in their copies of the manuscript, but I’ve stopped listening. I’m looking at our victims’ names, remembering their mug shots and their crimes. I don’t know how we never thought of it before. It seems so fucking obvious now.

Who else could’ve known? Some of these people were never even arrested, just came in as POI and were released, never to be seen again.

Who else would’ve been able to leave all these bodies and crime scenes spotless? We pulled about 50 bags out of that bay, and the most we’ve found is fucking rock algae and that he has an affinity for plastic wrap, duct tape, and power tools. Not a hair, not a drop of sweat, not a fingerprint, not a single mistake.

And what better profile for a vigilante killer than someone in law enforcement?

I look at Carlos Gutierrez’s name. He murdered Kathy Levy, that patrol officer out in West Flagler, then evaporated into thin air. Except he didn’t. The Butcher found him, tied him down with plastic wrap, then opened up his arms from wrist to clavicle, presumably sat there and watched him bleed out. Besides the cut on his cheek, Gutierrez was otherwise unharmed. His coroner report said he died slow. Like 20 minutes slow. He could’ve been conscious for most of it, unable to move or speak or do a single thing to help himself as he bled to death.

Who else would have that kind of fury?

I have a new, unpleasant thought.

And Moser wanting to serve me to him. It’s not just that the Butcher kills criminals, that murdering me for him was some play at irony. It’s that the Butcher’s law enforcement himself. He could even be a cop too.

I feel a little sick to my stomach. It all makes a dizzying sort of sense.

I look back at the others, at Batista. I think maybe he knows. I think maybe all of them do. But it’s easier to scramble for the alternative than to have to face that the Butcher may very well be one of us.

He could even work somewhere in the building.

I glance behind me into the station, as if expecting to see fucking LaGuerta or something holding a butcher knife and a plastic syringe. Of course, the hall looks the same as it always does.

“Hey.”

I turn back to find Batista looking at me. He’s been weird with me most of the day, since Lundy asked me to go with him to the _Tribune_ office, and I get why. I’m not even sure why Lundy took me, since Batista was made lead in working the manifesto.

Not that I wasn’t glad for the time alone with him…

“I haven’t gotten the chance to ask,” he continues, as in the close background Masuka rambles to everyone else about his MIT guy. “How’s your brother doing?”

My brows fold as I look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I was just wondering if you’d talked to him.”

“About what?” I glance behind me again, toward Dex’s hole, even though I can’t see it. “Isn’t he here?”

“Wait, you didn’t hear what happened?”

I feel a pang of unease. The rest of the conversation at the table has suddenly broken off, and everyone’s looking at us. “Something happened to Dexter?” I ask cautiously.

They all glance at each other. I feel another pang.

“Fucking what happened?” I ask before anyone speaks, looking particularly at Batista.

“Doakes attacked him,” he says after a beat. “This morning, after you and Lundy left for the _Tribune._ ”

My stomach drops a floor as heat flushes up my neck. “What?” I say, sitting up straighter. “Are you fucking serious?” But of course they are, from the expressions on their faces. Even Masuka looks uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” the detective affirms.

“What happened?”

He shrugs. “I was sitting at my desk and the next thing I knew Doakes had him on the ground. He was wailing on him.”

The heat is rapidly converting to rage. “Is he okay?” I ask.

“He’s fine.” His tone is reassuring, yet utterly ineffectual. “LaGuerta gave him the rest of the day.”

“And Doakes?”

“She put him on administrative leave. Took his badge.”

My blood is hitting a flash boil. Suddenly it’s like I’m back outside that house, sitting in that ambulance. I couldn’t believe what Doakes said to Dexter, barely ten minutes after he’d saved me. He’s always had a bug up his ass about my brother, but that he had the fucking gall to suggest he had anything to do with what happened to me…

In that moment I could’ve fucking killed him.

“Why?” I ask. “What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know. Dex just said he jumped him.”

“But what set him off?”

He shrugs again. “None of us know.”

Why the fuck didn’t anyone call me?

Why the fuck didn’t _Dexter_ call me?

For a beat I look between them all, searching for some answer in their faces, but of course there’s nothing there. Then I abruptly shove out of my seat. “Fuck,” I say to no one in particular before taking off for the door, which I rip open when I get to it, my phone already in-hand.

I’ve dialed my brother before I’ve gone three steps down the hall, and his phone rings and rings in my ear. As I turn for bullpen I almost run straight into Lundy, who looks at me strangely before I blow right past him. Because for once I’m too distracted to think about him.

As the phone rings and rings and rings…

“Fuck,” I murmur when it dumps to voice mail. I stop against my desk as I wait for the beep, clamp my molars together. And then, finally…

“Jesus, Dex, what the fuck?” I say into the dead air. “I just had to hear about what happened between you and Doakes from Batista. Are you okay? Where are you? Fucking call me.”

I click off, then squeeze the phone between my fingers. My gaze flicks to Doakes’ empty desk. I have a passing thought of calling him too, to make him explain it and everything else to me. For awhile I’ve worked on letting that night go, tried to pin it on high tensions, or that maybe I misheard, somehow misinterpreted what he said through the haze of being kidnapped and tied down in plastic and nearly stabbed in the chest. I’ve brushed off everything he’s said since. Laughed off his little comment about Dex being a junkie. But now I realize he was serious, that he’s always been serious, for some godfor-fucking-saken reason.

_Why?_

He was my partner. I thought we were friends. Maybe we were. Before that night.

Why the fuck would he attack my brother?

I glance right, spot LaGuerta behind her desk. She seems like the only person who might know. The two of them are practically joined at the hip.

If I had any better instincts, they’d probably be directing me elsewhere as I head for her office, but I don’t, and I don’t care. I walk in and close the door behind me, barely able to feel my feet on the floor.

“Lieutenant,” I start when she looks up at me.

“Morgan,” she says. “What can I help you with?”

“I just heard what happened, between my brother and Doakes,” I say, studying her as I walk up to her desk. Something like exasperation flashes across her face. “What did happen?”

“I don’t know,” she echoes Batista. Then adds, almost as an aside, “But maybe I should’ve seen it coming.”

Distantly, it connects that I’m glaring at her, but I can’t stop myself. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

It’s a moment before she responds, carefully, “I think you should talk to your brother about it.”

Something slips dangerously close to my lips, but I swallow it. For a second I’m gagged with a hundred questions, half of them bordering on accusations. “What the hell is Doakes’ problem with Dexter, anyway?” I say finally. “If he’s told anyone, it would be you.”

Her expression stiffens. “It’s not worth repeating.”

“So he has told you?”

She says nothing. Maybe in a more patient moment I’d give a shit why.

“I was fucking there that night, just in case you forgot,” I press. “I heard him when he said he thought Moser had some kind of connection to my brother. That’s when most of this shit started.” I search her eyes. “Does he still fucking think that? Does he really believe…” I choke on the rest of it, so angry I can barely think. “My own brother, that he fucking…” _What?_

Slowly, she stands up.

“What the fuck does he even think?” I ask. The office and everything in it seem to pulse red.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve made it clear to James that I have no interest in his conspiracy theories, and that neither I nor the department can protect him from himself.”

Something that might be a scoff fires out of me. Because even if she doesn’t know the specifics, she’s all but confirmed it.

“So it took him beating on Dexter for you to do anything about this? And this is, what, five minutes after he skipped through his last hearing for blowing another fucking guy away? What’s that make? Two in five months?”

“Be careful, Officer,” she says.

I’m openly glaring at her now. “You know, I get that he’s your friend— at one point I thought he was my friend too —but this is fucked. How long have you been protecting him? What the hell else has been going on that you apparently weren’t even surprised that this happened?”

She’s pissed too. I can see it now. Though whether it’s at me or at Doakes, I have no idea. “Morgan,” she says, stops. Takes a second to compose herself. “I have a long history with James, longer than anyone else in Miami Metro,” she continues. “I’ll admit that that’s colored my judgment, but I would never knowingly put anyone in this department at risk. I had no idea things would ever escalate so far.”

At this point I know I’m digging my own grave, but I don’t care. I can’t help myself. “Yet you should’ve seen it coming?”

She sets her jaw. Fucking throw me out, I want to say. Fucking stand by your bullshit indignation and throw me out of your office.

“Look,” she says after a second, as she noticeably unclenches, “I understand your feelings. I’m sorry I didn’t read James correctly. He’s made enemies in other departments and invented these kinds of theories before, but he’s always let them go. He’s never taken them this far. You’re right. I tend to treat him as more a friend than a subordinate, and that is my mistake. But the truth is, even if by some miracle he isn’t fired, we both know he won’t be able to come back to Homicide after this. Today he effectively blew up whatever remained of his career.”

I don’t reply. I don’t know what to say.

She fills the silence. “I truly am sorry. But at least Dexter is okay. Have you had a chance to speak with him?”

“No.” I shake my head.

She nods, exhales, looks away for a second. “If it’s okay with your task force, why don’t you take the rest of the day?” she says after a second, looking back at me.

I still feel at a loss. I don’t know that there’s anything she could say that would placate me. Standing here, I realize I don’t even know what I want from her. It’s just fucked beyond words that it ever got to this point, that Doakes ever for a second could seriously believe that Dexter was in league with Brian Moser, or whatever he thinks. That, what, he knew? That he fed me to Moser?

He saved my life, that night and a hundred times since.

“I may,” I say finally. I don’t know how long I was silent. Maybe only a couple seconds. “I need to clear my head.”

She nods. “I can clear it with Lundy.”

“No, that’s okay,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.” Though I’m not sure what I’m going to say.

She nods again.

For a beat we just look at each other. I don’t know what else I want to say to her, if there even is anything, and I know as the moment ticks by, as I search her again, that we’re done. Suddenly all I really want is to go. Anywhere. Away.

So I turn and head out the door, leave it open as I found it. Go to my desk and grab my blazer and my purse, swing them both over my arm.

As I’m walking back toward the briefing room, I run into Lundy again. He’s got his phone to his ear, but he lowers it when I approach him. Maybe he was listening to his messages or something.

“Hey,” I say. Our kiss on the bench outside the _Tribune_ feels like it happened three weeks ago and between other people, or possibly not at all. But even through the rage pulsating behind my corneas, I feel a little calmer just being this close to him. Just talking to him.

“Hey,” he replies, in that slightly lame way of his. “Something up?” He glances at my crap in my arms.

“Yeah,” I say. I don’t want to explain it to him. Or maybe I do, but I can’t. Not here and now, anyway. “I need to take the rest of the day, if that’s alright with you. I’ve already cleared it with LaGuerta.”

“Sure. Everything alright?”

He makes me feel so fucking transparent. “I don’t know. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

He looks vaguely concerned, but he nods. “Please do.”

A current seems to pass between us. For a second I feel like he might reach out for me, even as we stand like two yards from the glass doors of the briefing room. I’m not sure how I’m going to respond when he does.

But then he doesn’t. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says instead.

“Yeah,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

We look at each other a second longer than necessary before I break the eye contact, go directly for the stairs instead of the elevator.

But those warm feelings for Lundy fade quickly the further away from him I get. By the time I get to the last step and push out the door into the lobby, my thoughts have already swung back to Doakes and my brother. As I walk for the exit, I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Dexter again, exhale as I press the phone to my ear.

It rings and rings and rings.

Dumps to voice mail.

Because fucking of course it does.


	53. Non Sequitur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter for 2.07, and with it I'm gonna go on a brief hiatus. 2.08 is done, but with this fic I like being at least a whole episode ahead of what I'm posting in case I need to make changes, so for now those chapters aren't going up.
> 
> At any rate, thanks for reading, and hopefully I'll be back to regular posts in about a month or so.

__

_Non Sequitur  
_ _Setting: “That Night, a Forest Grew”_

* * *

I fluff my hair as I walk out of the bathroom for the kitchen, glancing down the hall as I go. Still no sign of Dexter.

Exhaling irritably, I head to the counter to check my phone. Flip it open, closed again. The fucker still hasn’t called me back.

I debate leaving him a second message, but decide not to. Set my phone down.

When I left the station I came straight to the apartment looking for him, but he wasn’t here. After sitting around with my thumb up my ass for twenty minutes, I changed, drove over to Bay Harbor, parked as close as I could get to the beach, and took a long run along the water, past a hundred umbrellas and sun-tanning snow birds. As I ran I thought about Doakes, Moser, the Butcher and Lundy’s revelation, Lundy himself, Lundy and me, and, eventually, nothing much at all. I was almost down to SoBe when I finally turned around. By the time I made it back to my car I felt somewhat cleansed or, at the least, totally fucking exhausted.

It was only as I started up the car to go that I realized this was the first time I’ve been able to be so close to the water without having a flash back. My satisfaction over that was slightly dampened when I also realized Dexter hadn’t called me back, and when I came back here to find him still absent. Half of me wonders if I shouldn’t have just stayed at work, but, then again, I was close to explosion when I left, so it was probably for the best.

I glance at the oven clock. It’s almost six.

Consider calling him again. Don’t.

Instead I grab the other half of the chicken tender sub I picked up at Publix on the way back from my run, bring it and a water bottle to the couch, plop down. Unfold the paper and promptly drip some sauce onto my knee.

I wipe it off with a napkin out of the wad that was thrown into the plastic bag, take a bite of the sub. Now that I’ve cooled off I’m quickly being swept back into my thoughts. Replaying the kiss in slo-mo. Going over what I said.

So I did it. It’s done. Less than 24 hours after dumping Gabriel, I kissed Lundy, and he kissed me back. I don’t know where we’re going from here, if we even are going anywhere. When we finished our lunch he asked me about Gabriel, and I told him we broke up, but didn’t go into any more detail than that. I’m sure though from the way he looked at me that he read between the lines.

We didn’t say much else to each other on the way back from the _Tribune,_ and, clearly, I didn’t have the chance to talk to him after work about it either. I’m not sure what I want to say. I know I want to be with him, but even opening the door this far is dangerous enough.

I crumple the empty wrapper, shove it back in the plastic bag, throw that on the table. Follow it with my feet.

Then again, it’s not like my reputation can really get much worse.

I drink some water, glance without interest at the TV. Drink some more.

There’s just an incredible tenderness I feel for Lundy, something like gratefulness, but sweeter. For keeping me on this case, for keeping me at least some percentage sane and stable. When I’m with him I don’t have to flee from every quiet moment. I feel safe and assured, like 14 weeks ago I wasn’t dragged screaming from a trunk to the garage where I was so nearly murdered. He makes me feel like my survival wasn’t some cosmic mistake, like I’m not just what Moser made of me. What he left of me.

I drain the bottle, toss it next to the bag. It bounces off the table and rolls to the floor.

And the touchy-feely shit aside, when it comes down to it I’m just attracted to him. Really, really.

Really.

_Fuck…_

My thoughts are bisected by the sound of keys bumping against wood, and before the lock’s even turned I’m on my feet. Fucking finally, he’s home.

It occurs to me as the door opens unhindered that I forgot to put the chain on, but the thought falls away quickly as Dexter comes in.

“So you’re not dead,” I say, walking over to him.

“No, I’m fine,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t have the chance to call you back.”

I eyeball him, crossing my arms. From what I can see he looks perfectly fine, which half surprises me, half relieves me. Considering how Doakes is built, I was expecting him to look like he’d had the shit kicked out of him.

But, I realize suddenly, he fucking _reeks_ like a campfire.

“I called you hours ago,” I say. “What do you mean you didn’t have time? And why do you smell like a fucking campfire?”

He glances behind him, and I have this weird, premonitory feeling that something terrible is about to happen, even before he starts talking. Because he’s left the door open. “I was at Cody’s presentation when Lila called me. There was a fire at her place…”

He trails off as the pale skank in question finally walks in behind him, a bag in hand.

Oh fuck no.

“Hello, Debra,” she says stiffly, yet with an air of satisfaction. Like she’s a snake with a fat, dead mouse in her coils.

I look from her to the mouse in question. Several things pop into my head, and I don’t know which one to voice, so I swallow all of them. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” I say finally. Add, “Privately.”

Lila flashes a simpering smile as she curls her arm around my brother’s elbow. “Anything you want to say to Dexter, you can say in front of me.”

I snort, open my mouth to say the first thing that comes to mind.

“No,” Dexter interrupts. “It’s fine. Lila, why don’t you put your stuff down in the bedroom while Deb and I talk outside?”

She narrows her eyes as she looks at me, and I feel fairly certain that if looks could kill, a lightning bolt would’ve just sundered the roof and immolated me to ash. Then she looks at my brother, reaffixing that simpering smile to her face. “Okay, luv,” she purrs.

She de-links her arm, but kisses him territorially before sauntering into the bedroom, and I don’t bother to keep watching her. I think if my eyes rolled back any farther they’d pop out the other end of my skull.

And meanwhile my idiot brother seems utterly oblivious to what she was doing. “Come on,” he says to me, grabbing my elbow and steering me outside. He shuts the door behind us.

“Really?” I explode, unable to help myself. “You traded Rita and those kids for _that?_ ”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion on my love life, Deb,” he says.

“Well, too fucking bad, you’re getting it anyway.”

He just looks at me. “What did you want to ask me?”

It takes me a second to remember. Now it seems suddenly, totally ridiculous that I spent most of my time since I left the station being worried about him. “What the fuck do you think?” I ask. “What happened between you and Doakes?”

“Oh,” he says, as if somehow surprised by the question. “Honestly, I don’t know. He just jumped me.”

“He just jumped you?” I repeat. “Just out of the fucking blue?”

“Pretty much.” He shrugs, his hands finding his pockets.

I study him, finally notice a cut on his forehead that wasn’t there this morning. Probably a souvenir from Doakes. “You really expect me to believe that?” I ask after a beat.

“That’s what happened.”

This is something that drives me nuts about him. He’s completely fucking unreadable, no matter the situation, no matter the scale of the lie. In this case I can’t tell if he’s full of shit or not, but it just doesn’t make sense to me that there isn’t more to this. I can’t see Doakes going after him for no reason at all. Then again, I still can’t figure out why Doakes has been fixated on Dexter to begin with.

So I change tacks. “What the fuck is his problem with you anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Another shrug. But this time I’m sure he’s lying.

“Don’t feed me that shit,” I say. “This all seems to have started that night, or around then, when I was missing.” I search his eyes, trying to find some kernel of something there. “I’ve never been able to understand why he would think you could possibly have had anything to do with what happened to me.”

“I don’t either.” He seems to sense my retort, continues hastily, “When I realized what happened to you, when I realized who Rudy was, I tried everything I could to find you. I didn’t stay with the team. I didn’t tell anyone Rudy called me to that house. I just went by myself.”

It fucking weirds me out to hear him using the pseudonym. “But why would that have put you anywhere near Doakes’ radar?” I ask.

“If I knew that, I would’ve cleared it up a long time ago.”

I struggle to come up with a response. None of it makes sense. Dexter taking that call and going up to that house secretly was the stupidest thing he could’ve done, and he should’ve known better, but it’s the only reason I’m alive. Miami Metro would’ve gotten there seconds too late.

“Doakes has always had it out for me,” he fills my silence. “Maybe it was just the final straw. Or maybe—” he breaks off, glances away.

“What?” I prompt, when he doesn’t finish his thought.

He looks back at me, shrugs again. “Maybe he wanted to be the one to rescue you.”

I pause, amazed by the change in course. I don’t… “What?” I say.

“Don’t tell me you never noticed?”

I feel warm suddenly, and not just because it’s a fucking hot house out here. “Notice what?”

“That he’s got a thing for you.”

I stare at him. “What?” I say again, stupidly. Doakes? “Are you serious?”

But of course he is. I feel utterly flabbergasted as he nods.

“You think this is about him wanting to have been a fucking knight in shining armor?” I ask.

“It’s the only thing I can come up with.”

I don’t know what to say. Finally, “Are we in fucking kindergarten here?” I ask. As he brings the uber skank home. As I dump Gabriel for my equally inappropriate crush.

“You asked what I thought.”

I open my mouth, but whatever I was going to say doesn’t come. I have no response to that. It doesn’t make any sense, but the whole situation doesn’t make sense anyway.

“Are you okay?” I ask finally, because I have no desire to pursue this line of questioning anymore.

“I’m fine. Maybe a little dented in a couple places, but…” He flashes a small smile, doesn’t finish the statement.

How is he so okay with all this?

“Good.” I nod. Feeling deflated and, somehow, defeated, I tuck my hair back. Exhale slowly.

“I should go back inside.” He pauses. “Will you be able to play nice?”

I snort. “What do you think?”

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

I think about telling him about that place on Harding, but I still haven’t heard back from Yolanda Wilkes, the apartment manager. I don’t want to tell him I’ll be out soon if I’m not sure I’ve got the place.

He reaches for the door. “You coming in?”

“In a minute,” I say.

He nods. “See you inside then.”

And then he opens the door and goes in, shuts it with a quiet click.

Sighing, I go over to the railing, lean my forearms against it. Wish I had a beer or something. Fuck do I not want to go in there. I’d almost rather pitch a tent out here on the walkway than have to make nicey nice with Amy Winehouse’s FAS disordered second cousin.

I look down at the pool. My thoughts slide left.

Doakes? Is Dexter serious? How could I have never noticed that?

Does he really believe something so stupid and petty is the source of all this? Or, like he said, was it just the last straw? It’s not like they haven’t been openly antagonistic long before I joined Homicide. I remember the tension when I used to occasionally visit my brother back when I was in Vice.

I don’t know. I’m done. I give up trying to make sense of it. I don’t think it ever will. And if it what LaGuerta said is true, it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell Doakes will be able to stay in Homicide after this, especially with those two shootings on his back. I’d be surprised if he keeps his job at all. At this point it’s probably best we all just move on, especially since Dexter, for whatever reason, doesn’t seem to give a shit.

I glance back. I think even through the walls I can hear Lila’s annoying-ass, nasally fucking voice.

A fire in her place he said? Just taking one look at that crazy bitch it wouldn’t surprise me at all if she set it herself.

Rolling my eyes, I turn back, resettle against the railing. I have a feeling I’m going to be standing here awhile longer.


	54. Plenty to Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re back. I’ve got enough of a backlog to start doing biweekly updates again, so I guess that’ll continue until either I run out again or the fic ends. Right now I’m hoping to be done by June so we’ll see.
> 
> Anyway, the timing for this ep is pretty incongruous and I can’t figure out how long after 2.07 it’s supposed to be. Some stuff suggests it’s been a long time, maybe a week or more, but other details suggest it’s only been a few days. Ultimately, I went with the shorter time frame and put three days between 2.07 (ending on a Thursday) and 2.08 (beginning on a Monday), because it makes the most sense, for a variety of reasons.
> 
> This scene is set on the day before the start of 2.08, mostly just to flesh out the fallout from Lundy’s revelation. This is another one of those scenes that kind of floats on the borderline canon-agreement wise, because this is just another one of those situations where the direction of the investigation feels pretty contrived to me, but I like how it functions here.

__

_Plenty to Hide  
_ _Setting: “Morning Comes”_

* * *

It’s 3:23, Sunday afternoon, and we’re all sitting in the briefing room waiting for Lundy to come back. He was here when I arrived— I suspect long before anyone arrived —but he stepped out awhile ago. In his absence, everyone from Miami Metro has grouped together against the feds again. It’s starting to feel like we’re all guarding against a coup or something, and, for as much my libido is pulling me in another direction, even I’m getting a little nervous. Lundy wasn’t here at all Friday. He spent the day over at the FBI field office, doing we don’t know what.

And now we’ve been brought in for an urgent meeting. The team working the Buffer Water Preserve just found Susan Lurie’s body, and it needs to be kept under wraps. Somewhere down the line we’ve sprung a leak: yesterday’s news was plastered with long-lens shots and grainy footage of the feds and the body recovery team over at Oleta, along with an accompanying exposé on Mike Donovan and his supposed victims. All of us are pretty convinced that the source was the _Tribune_ , but it doesn’t matter. Everyone has gotten twitchier since Lundy’s revelation, whether or not they believe it, and we can’t ignore the possibility that it came from here. Or we shouldn’t, anyway.

I look over when I see movement at the door, only to find Masuka walking in. Some of us wave as he heads over and plops down next to me and Batista. My own wave is half-hearted. He was bugging the piss out of us all Friday, or, really, he has been since the forensic work in this case dried up and he ran out of productive shit to do.

“What’ve you got?” Batista asks.

“Yamada sent over her initial report on Susan Lurie,” he says, waggling the folder he’s carrying before setting it on the table. “Pictures too.”

“Is she out of the ground yet?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Probably not. You know how fucking slow those anthropologists are.”

I don’t know. I’ve never even talked to Yamada beyond a four-second interaction back before the tent was destroyed by the garbage men.

“Look,” the lab geek continues, flipping open the folder and starting to spread out pictures. “She totally mummified.”

“How does a body mummify in Miami?” Cook asks.

“That’s the cool part. It looks like Jake tossed her into a bog. The mud dried her out like jerky.”

I look down at the nearest picture, turn it toward me. It’s a black-and-white, _in situ_ shot, and for a second I’m not sure what I’m even looking at. I can’t find a head anywhere, just a mess of grey on grey on grey. I trace what I suspect to be an arm down to the body, and as I look at it I finally realize that she’s face down. Some of her hair seems to have sloughed off her head into the peat, revealing the pale back of her skull. As I move down her form, I also realize that she’s naked, her shriveled ass pointed skyward, and toward the camera. It occurs to me that that’s what Masuka’s appreciating.

Feeling disgusted for her and by him, I look away.

“It’s a shame,” Masuka says, pulling out another picture— the DMV shot of Susan Lurie that was in her MP file. “She was pretty hot, you know, before the bog dried her out.” He glances at me, a perverted smile pulling at his face. “But, you know, I bet if you closed your eyes, put a clothes pin on your nose, you might not even able to tell…”

“Jesus, would you shut the fuck up?” I say, knowing I’m just taking the bait.

He giggles to himself, and I glance around the table, at the rest of the boys. Some of them at least have the decently to look ashamed. I stop on Batista. Of everyone I would’ve expected him to say something, but he’s just fucking sitting there looking like he swallowed his own tongue.

I open my mouth to say something to him.

“Alright, everyone, sorry to keep you waiting.”

I let go of whatever I was going to say, turn back to see Lundy pulling the door closed behind him as he comes in. After it’s shut, he heads to the opposite wall and stops in front of a few of his suits, away from us. Something about the positioning feels vaguely antagonistic.

“Thank you all for coming in on your Sunday.” He’s tense. “I’ll keep it brief so you can get back to it as soon as possible.”

He exhales, sticks his hands in his pockets. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, the media has been running stories on Mike Donovan and the bodies we recovered from Oleta Park since yesterday’s 2-o’clock news. We now also have reporters circling the perimeter around the body in the preserve. Now, we don’t know who tipped them off, and we probably never will, but this in combination with our latest profile has made DC nervous about the handling of this case.”

“Your latest profile,” Masuka breathes, so quietly I barely hear it.

“Are you yanking the case?” I find myself asking.

Most of the eyes in the room flick from Lundy to me, and back again.

“No,” he says after a beat. He seems to soften almost imperceptibly as he looks at me, but maybe I’m just imagining it. “I spent most of Friday arguing to keep the case here.” His gaze returns to the room. “I think the likelihood is that the _Tribune_ couldn’t resist breaking the story. Their agreement to our terms was courteous, not binding. But the fact remains that we now have to operate under the assumption that our killer may have access to inside information on the investigation, and we need to do everything in our power to curtail him. That means case materials must stay inside this station house, and, preferably, this room, at all times. I want all copies of the manifesto and any other files to be collected and accounted for before end of day tomorrow. I’d also suggest you all limit your discussion of this case only to others on this task force. Loose lips, and all that.” He glances around the room. “Any questions?”

No one says anything, but every cop around me has stiffened. I’m almost certain all of us are wondering the same thing: does this mean the MDPD is under investigation? Miami Metro?

Or is it worse than that? Does he suspect someone in our own division?

Lundy’s nodding to himself. I suspect he knows exactly what we’re thinking. “Vince,” he says, “Dr. Yamada told me she sent you her preliminary report. Anything worth noting?”

Masuka seems a little startled to have been called upon, but his chest’s already puffing out before he’s even opened his mouth. “Not yet, sir,” he says. “It looks like it might be a complicated retrieval.”

He nods. “She indicated as much.”

“I’d be happy to go down there and lend my expertise,” he adds importantly.

Oh, please send him down to the bog, Lundy. And fucking leave him there.

“I’ll let Dr. Yamada know,” he says.

Masuka seems to deflate a little at his lack of enthusiasm. In a lighter moment, I might’ve snorted.

Lundy looks around the room again. “Obviously, the impulse here is going to be to assume that the body we’re recovering belongs to Susan Lurie, but we won’t know for certain until Dr. Yamada is able to examine her. As such, we’re not releasing her identity to the press until then. Detective Ramos,” he looks at him, “since unluckily enough you were also assigned to Jacob Lurie, I’d like you to take lead on anything that may come out of Dr. Yamada’s exam, if this is indeed Susan’s body. Until then, stay focused on the boys’ bodies. Vince, I saw in your report that you confirmed their identities this morning.”

“Yeah,” Masuka says, nodding.

Ramos nods too. That explains why he’s even more dour than usual today, everything else aside. “I’ve already been in contact with the families,” he says. “Agent Winter and I are going to meet Tyler Kale’s parents in about an hour.”

He nods. “Thank you. Officer Cook, Officer Sanchez,” he looks at them, “I’d like you both to work with Detective Ramos on Lurie and the Oleta bodies, if he needs it.”

They nod.

“As for the rest of us,” his gaze seems to linger on me for a second longer than the others, “we’ll keep going tomorrow. I just ask that before you go you bring anything related to the case you may have in your desks in here. After that, you’re free to get back to your Sundays.”

There’s a brief, awkward silence. Batista seems to be struggling to say something, but doesn’t. He doesn’t have to either. I can guess his question: why doesn’t Lundy think our own desks are safe?

And then a few of the agents start to move away from Lundy, and within moments everyone is up. I’m one of the last to rise. I’m debating going over to Lundy, though I’m not sure what to say when I get there. Part of me wants to avoid him out of wariness, but my loyalty to the department can’t quite override the rest of my feelings. Because we haven’t really had a chance to talk since we kissed.

As I’m looking at him, he turns and our eyes meet. The yards between us feel like football fields with everyone else around. It occurs to me that I’m not sure what I even could say to him, unless and until I can get him alone.

“Bullshit he’s not taking the case,” Batista mutters.

I look back at him, still caught between my feelings for Lundy and everything he just said.

“I don’t remember when his profile went from an idea to the new base of our investigation. Do you?”

“No,” Ramos agrees.

“Nope,” Masuka says.

“Do we have a better explanation?” I ask impatiently, before I can stop myself. But now that I’m talking, and now that they’re all looking at me, I might as well keep going. “You guys have to admit that it explains a fuck of a lot more than him being some psychotic revolutionary or religious wingnut or fucking classic lit geek.”

They’re looking at me now the same way we’ve all been looking at the FBI.

“Is that you talking, or Lundy?” Batista asks.

I cross my arms, trying not to track Lundy as he heads out of the room in a knot of suits. Fuck, I missed my window. “What does that mean?” I ask, refocusing on him.

“It means you were awfully quick to be his yes-man. What, you really think the Butcher is one of us?”

“I’m no one’s fucking yes-man.” I feel vaguely defensive, with them all staring at me so traitorously. “And, no, I don’t believe the Butcher is one of us or anyone in our division. I’m not even sure I believe he’s a cop. But it’s gotta be someone with access or, at least, the know-how to kill over twenty people without leaving a speck of evidence. You guys really think someone as meticulous as the Butcher thinks like that pile-of-crap manifesto reads? The simpler explanation is that it’s exactly what it appears to be— a fucking pile of crap.”

No one says anything for a second. Batista seems to be turning over what I said.

Then, “I just can’t believe he’s one of us,” Sanchez says. “I need more than a lack of evidence and an interpretation on the manifesto. You don’t have to be in law enforcement to know how to keep a scene clean. At this point who _hasn’t_ watched _CSI_? Who doesn’t know about fingerprints and DNA?”

I shrug, feeling done with arguing about this. “Believe what you want. We’d all rather it not be true, but I’m not sticking my fucking head in the sand.”

“Nobody’s head’s in the fucking sand, Morgan. I’m just saying we shouldn’t be so quick to crucify our own department on the word of some DC suit.”

“Lundy’s not just ‘some suit.’” I’m entirely aware of what I sound like but I can’t help myself. “He’s the FBI’s top profiler. And that aside, no one ever said he suspects someone in our department.”

“Then why ask us to clear our desks?”

At that I fall silent. I don’t have an answer.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Even his lap dog can’t defend him there.”

I feel a flash of anger. “Fuck you.”

“Alright,” Batista interrupts. “Let’s all just take a breath.”

I do. So does Sanchez. Everyone else keeps standing lamely about. I wonder if I’ve changed anyone’s minds, or if this was just a fat waste of energy. Probably the latter.

“Whatever,” I say after a beat. “We’re lucky to even still have this case after what happened to Olson, and now this. I for one am not gonna hold out on some pointless show of principle if this is what it takes to keep the case. Especially since even if he does dig into us, he’s not gonna fucking find anything anyway. We all know we have nothing to hide.”

And with that I separate from them, go to the door, and walk out of the briefing room. I’m not sure what possessed me to do that, after being passive about my agreement with Lundy all this time, and I don’t feel any better for having done it. Mostly I just feel nettled as I head back to my desk. Because truthfully what Lundy’s asking us to do does disturb me. From the way he was standing there with his feds, it half felt like the start of a witch hunt.

I open a drawer and grab a small pile of shit from within it, close it, open another drawer, grab more files. Dump it all on my desk and start thumbing through it.

I don’t know. I trust Lundy. I think he’s wrong to be fishing here, if that even is what he’s doing, but I trust him.

I hesitate as I look at one of the folders, pull it out of the stack. It’s the file that contains my blood panel, the one that links me undeniably, and immutably, to Valerie Castillo and the rest of the Butcher’s victims.

After a second, I lean down, stuff the thing under and between a bunch of other stuff. I don’t know why I’m holding onto it. I don’t know why I haven’t tossed it, or shredded it, or fucking set it on fire by now. I can’t seem to force myself.

“I thought we have nothing to hide?” a voice at my back says.

I flinch, look up to see Batista standing next to me. Flush slightly at having been caught. He doesn’t know about the blood panel. Only Lundy, Masuka, and my brother know about it, and that isn’t going to change. Ever. He’d have to rip out my fingernails.

“The department doesn’t,” I say, closing the drawer. “Doesn’t mean I fucking don’t.”

He looks at me oddly, and a second passes where I don’t elaborate. “You alright?” he asks finally. “You seemed kind of defensive in there.”

“It’s not like we’re not all on edge over this.” I exhale. “You really still believe the Butcher’s some religious wackadoo?”

He shifts, sticks his hands in his pockets. “Honestly, I don’t know what I believe anymore. You and Lundy made a lot of good points.”

“But?” I prompt.

He shrugs. “I guess I just need more convincing.”

I grab the files and adjust them against my chest. “Well, don’t fucking look at me. I’ve dug myself deep enough for one day.”

“You’re not wrong.”

I make a face at him, and he grins. “I’m dropping these off, and then I’m going home,” I say.

He steps out of the way as I move to pass him. “Big plans?” he asks, following me.

Now I’m just scowling. “Avoiding Dexter’s pasty new corpse of a girlfriend.” I almost air quote the last word, but don’t. My hands are too full. “Other than that, no, not really.”

“Wanna grab an early dinner?”

I pause. The impulse is to say no: I want to find Lundy. But we’ve reached the hallway, and I don’t see him anywhere. I don’t know how I could look for him without telegraphing that there’s something going on between us.

“You don’t have any plans either?” I ask redundantly. Of course he doesn’t if he’s asking me.

“We’re all supposed to go bowling at 7, but your brother hasn’t gotten back to me yet, so I don’t know if we’re still on.”

I look at him suspiciously. “This isn’t you asking me to be your fourth, is it?”

He laughs. “No. But you’re welcome to come along if you want.”

I glance around, take one last look for Lundy, but I still don’t see him. For all I know, he’s already left the building. “Alright,” I say after a moment. “Sure.”

“Great.” He’s still smiling. At least he doesn’t seem to have written me off. “I’ll go clear my desk, and then we can get out of here.”

“Sounds good.”

He nods, turns, and walks back into the pen. I watch him go for a second, then keep going for the briefing room. I still feel nettled over this whole thing, and now a little cockblocked, but maybe blowing off some steam with Batista wouldn’t be so bad, especially if it’ll keep me away from Lila. That bitch has been practically super glued to Dex since Thursday night, and if I have to watch her stick her tongue down his throat one more time I might have to gouge out my eyes with a spork…

I set the files on the desk I usually sit at, blow out a breath.

I just wish I’d had a chance to talk to Lundy, about us and everything else. I want to know what we’re doing, and I want to know if he really is looking into Miami Metro and what he’s expecting to find.

When I look up I notice Batista coming toward me, and I step away from the desk.

I guess it’s gonna have to wait until tomorrow though.


	55. Patrick Bateman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure why it took a day for Deb to get around to talking to Batista about the Rodrigo case. I can’t really come up with a canonical reason for it other than writing contrivance, so this is me filling in the gap with my own shit. Does it follow canonical intention? No. I know this isn’t really tonally consistent with where she was in this ep. But it follows the trajectory of how I’ve dealt with this season, and at this point as long as it does one of the two that’s all I care about, because fuck if these last several episodes haven’t been boring to write.
> 
> On that note, this is also a good opportunity to build on my belief that Lundy strongly suspected Dexter of being the Butcher. I’ve always wondered if the reason Lundy didn’t gun harder for Dex was the same one that Quinn had in s5— both of them had feelings for Deb, and neither wanted to take the chance of being wrong because of what it would do to their relationship with her. It kind of amuses me that Deb’s dating life seems to have been the thing that saved Dex in both instances. And it also amuses me to think of her unwittingly implicating him here.

__

_Patrick Bateman  
_ _Setting: “Morning Comes”_

* * *

I shut the door behind me when I walk into the briefing room. As he has been most of the day, Lundy is sitting at his desk, his hands folded on the blotter, his reading glasses drooping down his nose as he reads through some file. He looks up at me as the door closes and smiles slightly.

I return it. “Hey,” I open, somewhat awkwardly, as I walk toward him. I almost said ‘Agent Lundy,’ but with us having dinner tomorrow I’m now not sure what I should be calling him. Frank?

“Thanks for coming in,” he says, taking his glasses off and tucking them into his suit. “Please, take a seat.”

I do, crossing my legs as I settle back. “I haven’t had the chance to talk with Batista about the Rodrigo case yet,” I say. “He’s been with Agent Timmerman most of the day going over the Jensen case, I think.”

“So you’ve decided to help me with my witch hunt then?” he asks dryly. His gaze seems to cut right through me.

I feel a little taken aback by his bluntness, but since he’s brought it up, I decide to go with it anyway. “No,” I say. “I’m doing this to help clear the department.”

He nods.

I study him for a beat, trying to figure out what he’s thinking. Decide to ask instead. “Do you really think the Butcher is someone in Miami Metro?”

“It’s too soon to say.” He’s remarkably still, like he’s been molded to the seat.

“That wasn’t a no,” I say, somewhat carefully.

“It wasn’t a yes either.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

I was as surprised as everyone else was to see the influx of suits today, and I’ve been half regretting my defense of him yesterday. It certainly feels as if the case is being torn out from under us, despite what he said about it staying interdepartmental. Like the rest of Miami Metro, I can’t help being suspicious that the reason he wants to continue working with us is to keep us all cooperating with the investigation.

Yet I still trust him, even though I can’t read him, even though I can’t pinpoint his motives, even though at this point I’m all but convinced he believes one of us is a serial killer. Because I’m just so fucking attracted to him that I apparently can’t think three feet beyond my libido.

“At any rate,” he continues, “I didn’t call you here to talk about the Rodrigo case, though I appreciate you agreeing to help me. I actually wanted to talk about Valerie Castillo.”

That pleasant buzz in my navel dies instantly. I blink as I look at him. “What about her?”

“I wanted to go over the investigation with you. If that’s alright?”

Now he’s searching me, as I lean back. “Yeah, it’s fine,” I say. “What do you want to know?”

“I have the file here.” He pushes it toward me, but I don’t reach for it. “It looks like about half of Homicide was assigned to the case?”

“More or less.” I cross my arms. “We got there thinking it was an ITK scene, and we left knowing it involved human smuggling, so it wasn’t a small deal. LaGuerta took a special interest because we found that kid, Oscar Torres, hiding in the trunk of a car in the scrap yard. She and Doakes took lead. We eventually ended up pinning it on her husband, Jorge, before handing it off to you guys.” I pause. “Of course, now we know it was the Butcher who killed her.”

As I’ve been talking, Lundy’s pulled a box out of his desk and set it down next to the folder. Now he opens it and slides out a half-empty tray of cookies.

“Want one?” he asks. “I couldn’t resist.”

My brows dip slightly. “No, thank you.”

He nods and pulls one out of the tray, leans back. Takes a bite out of it.

“You mentioned when you first brought this case to me that at the time you suspected it was committed by a copycat,” he says after he’s swallowed. “What changed your mind?”

For a second I don’t remember. I haven’t been able to separate the Castillo murder from the Butcher, and from myself, since Masuka handed me those blood panels. “It was Dexter,” I finally recall after a second. “He was going through all the crap we pulled out of their house and found a sock with her blood in it.” I walk myself back through it, remember standing there getting pissed as he shit all over my theory. “He never believed in my copycat idea. After he found the sock he went back through the footage Masuka took of the crime scene and of her body and said he didn’t think it looked like whoever killed her was trying to emulate the ITK.” Somehow it’s so much easier saying the acronym. “He said it was… sloppy, or something like that.”

“And the knife with her blood on it was found in a subsequent search of the salvage yard?” Lundy asks.

“Yeah.” I exhale. “Always thought it was weird no one found it before.”

His gaze seems to sharpen, even as that damn half a cookie hovers below his chin. “Do you believe it may’ve been planted?”

I bristle. “I never said that.”

“But do you?” he presses.

“No,” I say, then falter. I look away as he eats the rest of the cookie. “I don’t know,” I revise quietly, after a couple seconds. “Jorge as her killer never made any sense to me. Why would he lay her out like that? She was his wife. And the trailer was spotless— eerily clean, in the middle of that shithole. There’s no way she died there, or anywhere near there. If he was in as much of a rush as Dexter said he was, why kill her somewhere else, only to clean her up, bring her back, and display her on a table cloth? Why leave the knife in a car so close to the trailer? Why not just throw it in the river?”

He’s got another cookie. “What’s your explanation for the sock and the knife then?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe it was all unrelated. She could’ve cut herself on the knife as she was doing something in the scrap yard and tossed it in the car. Her blood could’ve ended up in the sock for any number of reasons.” I smooth back my hair, then recross my arms. “The case was never cinched up on our end. We just handed everything we had to you guys. Honestly, with everything else going on with the ITK investigation, that was the last I thought of it, at least until a month ago.” I pause. “And clearly the federal investigation never went much farther than what we came up with, probably because Jorge was murdered right along with her.”

He nods and eats the other cookie.

I say nothing as he chews. I know what he’s fishing for, but I don’t know what makes him think I’m his fish. Now that he brings it up, the timing of us finding the knife was suspicious, but I’m reluctant to think it means anything. We had cadets searching the scrap yard. They probably just missed it their first run through. I don’t believe there was any conspiracy, and at this point I don’t think the knife means anything anyway.

Eventually, finally, Lundy finishes the cookie, sets his hands on the desk. “After you and Masuka came to me with the blood panels on the Bay Harbor victims, I contacted the DEA for their list of M-99 licenses. They sent me this.” He picks up a small, stapled stack of papers, sets it on top of the Castillo file.

I look from it up to him, then back to it, slide it closer to me. There on the first page is a name highlighted in pink.

_Bateman, Patrick M.D._

“Patrick fucking Bateman?” I mutter, brows folding as I pick it up to look at it closer, as if that’ll make it make any more sense. It’s attached to a Fort Lauderdale address. “Like fucking Christian Bale with an axe murdering yuppies in New York Patrick Bateman?”

“Yes.”

I stare at him, waiting for a punch line that I know isn’t coming. “We requested the same list from the DEA for the Castillo investigation. I helped run the names myself. This wasn’t in there.”

“I know.” He reaches over and opens the Castillo folder, points down to the first stack of papers inside. I recognize my own handwriting scribbled in the margins. “This is that list.”

I glance between it and the one I’m holding, struggling to figure out what this means. “The fuck?” is all that comes to my mouth.

“I had a similar thought.”

I look at him. “Is that a valid address?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a residential address, currently unoccupied, as it has been for many years now.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Are you fucking kidding? Doesn’t the DEA ever check their shit?”

“Apparently not.” He looks annoyed. “I’ve been in contact with their director about it.”

I set the papers down, a new thought squirming up my midsection. “This wasn’t in our original list,” I repeat.

“It wasn’t.”

That’s all he says, but he doesn’t have to continue. I know exactly what I’m looking at here: evidence tampering. It’s as clear as fucking day.

“Why am I only hearing about this now?” I ask, instead of addressing the elephant that just crashed through the room. “Why didn’t you present it to the task force? It sounds like you’ve known about this Bateman thing for over a month now.”

“I have.” He pauses. “But I never looked at the list you were working off in the Castillo investigation before I started going through these cases over the weekend. Before this I was operating under the assumption that it may’ve been an alias of Brian Moser’s, especially since the first of the killings we can trace to him in Miami were up in Fort Lauderdale. As was the house he took you to.”

The blood seems to retreat from my fingertips at his words.

“It still very well could’ve been an alias of his,” he continues. “For the sake of discretion, I didn’t share it with the task force, especially since I didn’t find anything from looking into it. Dr. Patrick Bateman hasn’t renewed his license for this year, and his last recorded purchase of M-99 predates the Castillo murder by a few months.”

I realize I’m digging my nails into my ribs, stop myself. It takes a moment for me to speak. My mouth is paper dry. “But I was the only one of his victims he ever drugged,” I say.

“That we know of,” he counters. Gently.

I feel strangely light-headed as I look at him, like I’m floating somewhere in outer space. Somehow, I’ve never thought about it before: where did Moser even get the M-99 to begin with? Did the Butcher fucking give it to him? Did they, what, work together to get me to that house? Did he know?

“But we’re looking at the most obvious answer here,” I hear myself say. “The Butcher drugged all of his victims. If it was either of their aliases, it was his.”

“That’s what I now suspect, yes.”

Did he steal it from the Butcher?

“How the fuck did this name not appear on our list?” I ask, trying to shut down those thoughts. Failing.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

No, the Butcher must’ve given the drug to Moser. He had to have been in on it.

And suddenly I realize. It’s so fucking obvious, I don’t know why it took me this long to see it. The reason he took me all the way the fuck out there. The reason he left me on that table for so long. The reason he kept drugging me every time I came around.

He was waiting for the Butcher.

Maybe he wanted him to see what he’d done to me.

Or maybe they were going to kill me together.

“—list?”

“What?” I focus on Lundy again, but now it’s like he’s on the other end of a tunnel or something. I can feel my heart in my throat, and my face suddenly feels very pallid.

“Do you know if this is the only copy that was made of the list?” he repeats.

I don’t know. My thoughts seem to be scattering like cats from a vacuum. “I don’t know,” I say automatically, before actually trying to think about it. “Yes, there were others, but they were all the same,” I revise after a second, gripping the memory. “Masuka gave this one to Doakes and me. We were standing over him when he printed it.” I exhale. “He was so fucking excited about the lead. He’s the one who found the puncture mark in her neck,” I remember as I say it.

He writes that down, and I stare at him without processing what he’s doing. Those cats are running around my head. The Ice Truck Killer and the Bay Harbor Butcher. Lundy’s investigating Miami Metro for evidence tampering. He thinks someone planted the knife. He thinks someone messed with the DEA list. He thinks someone here is the Butcher.

Why would the Butcher have given Moser the M-99?

Who could’ve changed the list? Someone in the DEA?

Masuka?

What if Masuka’s the Butcher?

The thought’s so fucking absurd I almost laugh, but the blood has left my face, and it’s not particularly funny. I don’t know what any of it means.

“Masuka’s the only one who had the list,” I find myself saying. “No one could’ve changed it. Doakes and I marked up our copy as soon as we got it, so there’s no way it could’ve been swapped, and there’s no way the other copies didn’t match. Maybe the Butcher works for the DEA and intercepted it before it was sent to us. Maybe that’s how he’s been getting a hold of the M-99 and how he was able to assign a license to a false identity.”

“That’s a possibility I’m looking into,” Lundy says. Unconvincingly.

What the fuck is making him so sure it’s one of us?

“No one here could’ve changed it,” I repeat. “It’s impossible. Unless you suspect Masuka?”

“I don’t suspect Masuka, no,” he says.

I nod slightly. “Good,” I think I say. I’m not sure if I actually said it or not as I look away. I’m not sure of anything.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

I meet his gaze, but can’t quite connect to it. “Yeah,” I reply automatically. “I’m fine.” But all my thoughts are mish-mashing together, melting into a stew of fuck. He thinks the Butcher is a cop. He’s all but declared open season on all of us in Homicide. He thinks someone in Miami Metro, someone I might see every day, fed me to the Ice Truck Killer.

“Do you have anymore questions?” I ask.

“Not for the moment, no.”

I nod and get up. “Then if there’s nothing else, I’d like to step out for a bit, just to digest this.”

He gets up too, sticking his hands into his pockets in almost the same movement. “There isn’t,” he says. “You’re free to go.”

Part of me doesn’t want to. I want to ask him what’s going on, how the hell his profile narrowed from someone in law enforcement to someone in this department in the span of a weekend. I want him to give me whatever he thinks he has so I can prove him wrong. Because for as much as I know he’s brilliant, he’s not infallible.

But something in his expression checks me, and for once I can’t find the words. For a long, protracted moment, we just look at each other from across the desk, as my heart continues tapping in my throat.

And then I turn and head to the door, open it, and walk back out of the briefing room, let it swing closed behind me.


	56. Evening Comes

__

_Evening Comes  
_ _Setting: “Morning Comes”_

* * *

I’m halfway across the grounds of Dex’s complex when I stop, drop my gym bag and purse on the ground, and take off my shoes, start banging them against the trunk of the nearest palm tree. Then I pull off my socks and do the same to them. When I got back from my run on the beach, I dumped out a load of sand next to my car, but the whole drive here I’ve felt the shit squishing under and between my toes, and I can’t take it anymore.

When everything is as sand-free as they’re gonna get, I shove my socks into the shoes, throw my bags back over my shoulder, and keep going for the stairs, trailing through the grass. For once I’m glad about the analness of this complex— I’m not worried about dog crap or broken bottles. And, sure enough, I make it all the way up to my brother’s door without stepping in anything.

I grab my keys from my purse and open the door, looking around as I do. I find Dex sitting at his desk in front of his laptop, a stack of files at his elbow.

“Hey,” I say.

It takes him a second to look up at me. “Hey,” he replies distractedly.

I adjust my shit on my shoulder, glance at the folders. When I ran into him at work, I told him about Lundy giving me the Rodrigo case to look into, and he told me Lundy had asked him to review that case too, along with a couple others. I have a feeling those are his case notes.

“Reviewing your notes for Lundy?” I ask to spur conversation as I walk over to the couch, where I dump my bags on the coffee table and my shoes on the floor.

“Yeah,” he says.

When I look back at him he’s gone back to staring at his laptop. For a moment I don’t say anything, waiting for any sign of life from him, but I know before two seconds have passed that he’s probably not gonna end up moving from that position until he has to eat, take a crap, or go to bed.

“So,” I say by second three, suddenly noticing the silence, “where’s the tramp?”

His brows plunge as he looks back at me, and he makes a face. “Would you give it a rest?”

“No,” I say it without much amusement. “Where is she?”

“At her place.”

“Oh, thank god.” I grin in relief. “I didn’t think I could take another fucking night.” I fluff my sweaty hair, remember what he was saying this morning. “I thought you were spending the night with her?”

“I needed to work tonight.” This time he doesn’t bother looking up from his screen.

It couldn’t be more obvious that he wants me to leave him alone if he started stenciling ‘don’t bother me’ across his forehead, but it’s too bad for him, coz I don’t fucking care. Even though I ran myself half sick, a lot of my nervous energy is trickling back. About Valerie Castillo, about Lundy asking me to help him look into the Rodrigo case, about the greater problem of the FBI sinking its teeth into the department. About the Butcher and the Ice Truck Killer.

About dinner with Lundy tomorrow. About what the fuck whatever the fuck we’re doing means in the context of this task force. How it’ll look if it comes out. When it comes out. Whether or not I even care about that.

Exhaling, I walk over and plop into the seat opposite my brother’s desk. “I just wish I knew what Lundy thinks he has,” I say.

Dexter’s slow to react. It’s a moment before he finally looks over at me. “What?” he says.

“I said I wish I knew what’s made Lundy suddenly zero in on our department.”

He sighs audibly and shuts his laptop. Maybe he’s finally realized I’m not going anywhere. “I do too,” he agrees.

“How the hell could he think one of us is a serial killer?“ I cross my arms. “It’s fucking insane, yet he seems completely serious about it. And now he’s roping me into it too.”

“Did you agree to look into the Rodrigo case?”

I shrug. “Yeah. I figure if I can help clear the department, I should. I just can’t imagine what Lundy has, especially if he thinks it’s against Batista. And he’s got you reviewing your case notes too.” I scoff. “What, does he think _you_ killed all these people?”

He laughs a little nervously. He must be just as weirded out about this as I am. “Yeah,” he says, “this is all pretty crazy.”

“Fucking understatement of the year.” I tap my fingers against my arm. I feel myself, against my will, getting sucked back to all that shit about the ITK.

His voice cuts through it, “So you don’t know why Lundy’s investigating Miami Metro?” I look back at him. “Not even an idea?”

“If I did I wouldn’t be sitting here bitching about not knowing, would I?” I puff out a breath, debating whether or not to even go into today. To my left, the AC unit kicks on with a rattle. “He pulled me in to talk about Valerie Castillo today,” I say after a second.

“He did?” He still seems nervous.

“Yeah. Most of it was bullshit, but—”

“What was bullshit?” he interrupts.

“Just some shit about the timing of when we found the knife in the salvage yard. But, come on, it was a massive-ass yard and we had cadets searching it. They shouldn’t have missed it, but I’m not exactly surprised either. And, besides, we know the knife never meant anything anyway, since Jorge didn’t kill her. It being in there probably had nothing to do with her murder.”

“So it’s just about the knife then?”

“Well…” I trail off, click my tongue softly, “no. There was some far more significant shit with that DEA list we had. I don’t know if you remember, or maybe you didn’t even see it, but Masuka requested a list of DEA licenses for M-99 after he found it in Valerie Castillo. Turns out Lundy requisitioned the same list from the DEA after we found M-99 in all the Butcher victims, but his list had a name on it that ours didn’t— fucking get this, a Dr. Patrick Bateman.”

I’ve got his full attention now. “Like the fictional serial killer?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “His listed address is some unoccupied property up in Fort Lauderdale. Lundy’s trying to figure out how the hell it even exists.”

He doesn’t say anything. He seems to be processing what I’m saying.

“It being there at all is one level of fucked up, but the fact that it never appeared on our list is a whole other can of shit. Lundy seems to be convinced it’s proof of evidence tampering from within Miami Metro.” I pause, but when Dexter doesn’t speak, I keep going, “But it just doesn’t make any fucking sense to me. When Masuka got the list he printed it out right in front of me. The only person who could’ve tampered with it is Masuka, but, come on, fucking _Masuka_ as the Butcher? He might be a pervy little fuck, but he’s not a serial killer.”

“What’s your explanation?”

I shrug. “It makes more sense if it was somebody at the DEA. That would explain how some fuckmuppet using Patrick Bateman as an alias managed to get a license in the first place.” I scoff. “How stupid do you have to be to make _that_ your alias anyway?”

He laughs slightly, and a little strangely. “Pretty stupid.”

I glance away, my amusement fading. “Lundy must have more besides this though. A lot more. It’s not even close to enough to justify calling in Matthews and LaGuerta to comb over their old cases, let alone declaring open season on the whole department. I just can’t imagine what the fuck it could be.”

Again he doesn’t say anything, but a weird sound escapes his throat.

I study him for a second. “Why’re you acting so weird?”

And immediately his face pinches up. “I’m not acting weird,” he says.

I give him a look.

He cracks after a second. “I don’t know,” he revises. “It’s a little unsettling having the FBI digging through my old cases looking for a serial killer.”

“Hm,” I grunt. For someone as meticulous as he is in a boring-ass field he never gets to talk about, I’m surprised he isn’t delighted at the chance to finally have an interested audience. Then again the tone of Lundy’s new focus isn’t exactly friendly.

I blow out a breath.

“You seem weird yourself,” Dexter says after a moment.

“Yeah.” I shift against the seat. I shouldn’t go into it, but, “Lundy said that before he compared his DEA list to the one we were using for the Castillo investigation, he thought Brian Moser may’ve been using the Bateman name as an alias. It made me wonder how he even got the drug to begin with— Moser, I mean. The Butcher must’ve given it to him, fucking sanctioned my death or something, for some reason.” I pause for a few seconds, look past him at the window, but he doesn’t speak. “You know how I told you he put me out a few times when I was on that table?” I say finally. “I never could figure out why he did that, why he just left me there for so long, but now I think I do. I think he was waiting for the Butcher. Maybe they were planning on killing me together. Maybe I wasn’t a gift so much as a cooperative craft project.” It’s amazing how little I feel as I say it.

Dexter is looking at me with some horror, at least as much as his face can emote. “But, Deb, I told you, he called me there. He told me he was having doubts. That’s probably why he left you there.”

I shake my head. “He wasn’t having any fucking doubts, Dex. He lured you there to kill you too.” I exhale. “I guess that’s how bad he wanted to obliterate me. Probably wanted you to see me before he killed you.” I pause. “Or he wanted me to see you, to know there was nothing I could do.”

He doesn’t reply. As usual when I bring this shit up, he doesn’t know what to say. Not that I’d know what to say either.

“Whatever.” I get up. “I should just let it go, stop fucking dredging it up. It doesn’t matter anyway.” I start to move away.

“Deb—” He stops me.

“What?” I turn and look down at him, crossing my arms.

“Nothing,” he says after a beat. “You’re right. You should let it go.”

I nod, find myself looking past him again. It occurs to me that I’m not really thinking about it, or, more accurately, that it’s not really affecting me. Somehow, talking about it didn’t drag me back to that table.

Instead I find myself being brought back to Lundy. “Do you think there’s any chance Lundy’s right about this?” I ask the window, then meet Dexter’s eyes again. “Do you think the Butcher really could be one of us?”

He hesitates, then, “No,” he says. “He couldn’t be.”

His tone is pancake flat, but it doesn’t reassure me. Not that I was really expecting it to.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” I announce as I think it, suddenly feeling the sand that’s still between my toes.

“Okay,” he says.

Without saying anything else, I turn and head for the bathroom, leaving him to his case notes and me to my thoughts, at least for the moment. Fleetingly, I wonder if this is what it felt like in Salem right before they started erecting pyres.


	57. A Pile of Boxes

__

_A Pile of Boxes  
_ _Setting: “Morning Comes”_

* * *

Batista and I share a look as Lenny Asher pulls boxes from his horde and starts creating a new stack in front of us. Ten seconds ago this had seemed like a really good idea. Now I’m regretting opening my mouth.

Yet, despite myself, I say something else. “Could we borrow your notes from 2001 too?” I ask. “Maybe you could’ve seen something, if our killer was stalking him awhile.”

Lenny looks pleased. “Sure,” he says.

Batista’s entire frame seems to droop. He makes a face at me.

‘You never know,’ I mouth, shrugging very slightly.

We watch in silence as Lenny’s stack keeps growing, then divides into two. Somehow it feels like a metaphor for this entire investigation.

“Alright,” he says finally as he straightens up. “That’s all of it.”

“Thanks,” I say.

He squints at us for a moment. “You’ll return these soon, right?”

“Of course.” I nod. As if there’s a universe in which we’d want to keep them. I’m not sure how we’re even going to fit them all into the car.

“Well, let’s get moving,” Batista says. He leans down and picks up several. After he steps around me, I bend down to do the same, wrinkling my nose: the boxes reek of pot and tobacco. I realize as I lift all the ones I can carry that unfortunately one of us is gonna have to make a second trip.

Lenny moves ahead of us to the door and opens it, and I follow Batista out to the curb and across the street.

“I don’t know if I hate you or not,” Batista mutters, as we both set the boxes down next to the car.

I grab the keys from my pocket. “It’s not like we don’t have fuck-all else. And, besides, if he really is as much the Gladys Kravitz as he looks, there’s a chance he might’ve seen the Butcher.”

“You’re not wrong,” he says as I hit the unlock button. “I wish you were, but you’re not.”

I nod, glance between the boxes and the car. “Want to start loading them while I get the rest?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says.

Nodding again, I turn and head back across the street. The door is still open when I get there, and I find Lenny standing near the window. He watches me silently as I come in, then moves closer to me. I stop by the boxes and meet his gaze, feeling vaguely creeped out by the way he’s looking at me. “Yes?” I ask after a beat, when he doesn’t speak.

“I knew I recognized you,” he says, and immediately I feel my mood drop off a couple bars. “You’re Officer Debra Morgan. You’re the one who was all over the news a couple months ago.”

“Yep,” I say, going to grab the boxes so I can get out of this conversation as quickly as possible. “That’s me.”

I feel him staring at me. “You were really engaged to the Ice Truck Killer?”

I don’t reply as I lift the boxes, as several unpleasant emotions scratch up my chest.

“What was he like?”

I look at him as I straighten, search his beady eyes. Wonder if his soul could possibly be measured by the ounce. “That’s none of your business, Mr. Asher,” I reply flatly.

His expression twitches, but he doesn’t say anything else as I move past him for the door. “Thanks for your help,” I say when I get to it.

“It’s my pleasure,” he replies.

With that, I walk back out into the sticky Miami sunshine, not sparing a glance behind me, though I’m sure he’s returned to the window to track me to the car. I find with some surprise that I barely give a shit about what just happened, that it’s already rolling off me the farther I get from the apartment. It’s a little liberating— one less piece of tape hog-tying me to Brian Moser.

I decide not to say anything about it as I stop next to Batista, whose ass is currently sticking out of the car as he shoves boxes against the opposite door. “Got the rest of it,” I say instead, putting down my load.

“Thanks,” he grunts.

I watch him work. “Need any help?” I ask.

“I’m good. Thanks though.”

I nod. After a second I open the driver-side door to help the car vent a little, then on impulse reach into one of the boxes I just set down, take out the first slip of paper that I contact. “January 10th,” I read aloud. “New neighbors, Robert and Marie Martinez. Left garbage at curb. Did not pick up dog poop. Ones to watch.”

Batista retracts from the car and looks at the note. I turn it so he can see it better.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he says.

“Oh yeah,” I agree, sticking the paper back into the box it came from. Batista takes that and the rest, shoves them all into the car as I look on, sucking on a tooth. Stupidly, the smell of the boxes is making me want to have a cigarette. I regret not bringing my purse with me, though this is exactly why I didn’t bring my purse with me.

So after a moment or two I climb back into the car, turn over the engine, and start the AC. The heat from the cushions is already starting to cook my ass, but I ignore it as I reach for my cell phone in the center compartment. Behind me, Batista slams the door.

“That all of it?” I ask without turning. My door’s still open.

“Yeah,” he says.

The notification light is blinking. I flip open the phone as he steps around the car, see I’ve got a missed call from a local number I don’t recognize. Curious, I dial my voice mail, press it against my ear. Beside me, Batista opens the passenger side door and flops down into his seat.

“ _You have one new message,”_ it says after I’ve gotten past the menu.

I adjust the phone against my ear as I shut my door.

“ _Hello, this is Yolanda Wilkes from Palmetto Bay. I’m calling to let you know your application for the apartment was approved, and that the other couple I told you was interested in it has decided to move to a different community. If you’re still interested, you can call me at 305-555-1630. I’ll be in the office until 6 today. I’ll keep it held for the rest of the day for you, so no rush. Thank you and have a lovely day!”_

I flip my phone closed and squeeze it a little, feeling a sudden blush of pleasure through my core.

_I have an apartment._

“What happened? You look like you just found a winning scratch card.”

I grin as I look at Batista, still gripping my phone like an idiot. “I fucking feel like it,” I say. “I put in an application last week for a place up in North Beach and the apartment manager just left me a message saying I got it.”

“That’s great,” he says, smiling back. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

We hug for a second, somewhat uncomfortably, over the cup holders. The joy washes away the sourness I’ve been holding onto most of the day— for the moment I can’t even remember what it was about. I don’t care either.

_I fucking finally have a place again._

“When’re you gonna move in?” he asks when we separate.

“I don’t know.” I pull my hair back. “Fuck, with any luck, maybe I can start getting my shit over there tomorrow.”

“That quick, huh?”

“Yeah, well, it’s time. Past time.” I’m still smiling as I look away from him, out the windshield. I tap the phone against the wheel. “It’s like three fucking minutes from the beach. Little pricey, but…” I trail off. I don’t think I’ve been this happy about getting a place since my first apartment back in college.

For a beat I don’t move, overcome by what just happened, by what it means.

That I’ve finally stopped running. That all this shit wasn’t forever, wasn’t the rest of my life. That all those horrible things that I felt, that I can’t even bear to think about, now suddenly seem like they were a thousand years ago, and like maybe they were suction cupped to someone else.

That I really did fucking survive.

I squeeze the phone again, clear my throat. “You mind if I call her?” I ask, looking back at him.

He nods. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

I grin at him again, then hit redial, press the phone to my ear, throw my other hand over the wheel. As I listen to it dial, I glance left and spot Lenny Asher framed in his window, watching us from between the curtains.

For a moment I focus on him, but I find I don’t give a shit about why he’s looking or what he’s thinking, and I quickly look away.


	58. Boil

__

_Boil  
_ _Setting: “Morning Comes”_

* * *

“I still can’t believe how much food you made,” I say as I lean down to stick another bowl in the dishwasher.

“Better too much than not enough,” Lundy says, holding a pot out for me. “Besides, at least there’s enough for lunch tomorrow.”

I smile at him as I take it, snorting softly. Start scrubbing it out.

The clock on the oven reads 9:22. I got here around half-past six. We’re only now getting around to cleaning up from dinner. Before we hadn’t gotten much farther than putting our plates in the sink.

I feel light as a kite, and nearly as high. Still drifting in the wake of the post-sex after-glow.

After we ate, conversation disintegrated quickly. We moved from counter to couch, groping, roving, exploring. I realized when we pulled away from each other that there wasn’t a reason to stop, that there was nothing to wait for. And in that moment I knew, with an extreme and sudden clarity, that we were the only two creatures in the world who really existed. That everything beyond this apartment not only didn’t matter, but it had never mattered, because it had never been to begin with.

And even now I could still believe that, even as I, distantly, feel the laminate starting to recoalesce beneath my bare feet.

“I don’t even have tupperware,” I find myself saying after I’ve shoved the pot into the washer too, as I watch him press the lid onto a third tub. “I don’t think I’ve ever had tupperware.” I pause. “Toast doesn’t exactly reheat.”

He smiles. “I guess it’s just a lingering product of how I grew up. Or of having a family.”

I don’t say anything as I watch him stack the tubs and turn to put them in his fridge. Somehow I’d managed to forget the rest of his life— about his wife and his daughter. I still don’t know shit about them, since it’s so damn hard to crack that particular conversational walnut.

Especially since, maybe, some very small, very selfish part of me doesn’t want to know.

“My family didn’t do tupperware either,” I say. “After Mom died, we pretty much survived on take-out and shit from the frozen section. I never really grew away from that.”

He closes the fridge door and turns to look at me. The air between us instantly ignites.

“That’s a shame,” he says.

I shrug, grin at him. “Guess you’ll just have to teach me. What, with you owning the best restaurant in Miami and all.”

“I guess so.”

We grin at each other for a second, as the rest of the oxygen in the room burns away. As my thoughts crumble back to powder. We seem to make the same decision simultaneously, and I find myself backed against the counter, the Formica digging into my ass as his hand snakes under my unbuttoned blouse and around my camisole. The heat roars back through me as we kiss, as my fingers, of their own accord, seek skin, and are frustrated by the impenetrability of the t-shirt he put on a couple minutes ago.

Eventually we come up for air, and I pinch the shirt between my fingers as I look at him. “We should stop,” I say, as the rest of me thunders in violent disagreement. Because there’s something serrated in my need, to the way I feel myself gripping him.

“You’re probably right.”

I want to tell him I’m wrong, that I don’t know why I said that. But then we fall apart, and he’s turning to put some other thing away.

I don’t move from where I was pushed against the counter. My heart is pounding hard, and my head is barely clearing. From a thousand yards away, on the other side of a couple of walls, it occurs to me that there’s something else going on inside of me. I don’t want to acknowledge it.

“Would you like any tea?”

I feel my feet against the laminate again as I look at him. “Sure,” I say, even though I’m not really a fan of tea.

“I’ve got several kinds, if you’d like to choose.”

I shrug. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

He nods and opens a cabinet, and my gaze roves down his body. When he turns he catches me looking.

“Why don’t you put some water in the kettle?” he suggests.

The grin hasn’t left my face. “Yes, sir,” I say.

We don’t say anything for a bit, as I grab the kettle and fill it, put it back on the stove and turn on the range. He reaches around me to grab the teapot, then sets it down next to the stove, along with a couple short, handle-less, Japanese-looking cups. I watch him fill the pot with tea leaves, and then I grab the tin he spooned them out of, vaguely curious. Jasmine green tea.

Hm.

I lift the lid and sniff it, am immediately reminded of Chinese restaurant tea. I suppose there’s worse shit to drink.

I set it back down.

“I’ve got to use the restroom,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

I nod. “Thanks for the update.”

We smile at each other again, and then he heads around the counter and out of the room. For a moment I don’t move, just stand here looking at nothing in particular, thinking about nothing in particular. Until suddenly something inside me is unstopped, and I find myself being sucked down the drain. I drift over to the bar chairs, pull one out, and take a seat, as I fall back into an hour ago. My skin flushes.

He was amazing, the way he touched me. He knew without me having to say much of anything. Feedback of short, fired breaths, a handful of words, urgent fragments, mouths and fingertips. Whatever was strained between us, that awkwardness over what we’re doing here, was gone, obliterated in a moment. It felt like we were meant to be doing it, like, somehow, it was all we were really meant to be doing.

I feel hot all over. I want to just leave the tea, forget that I need to go home tonight, instead go back there and do it again. We could always shower again. I could always leave later. I could always sleep here and leave in the morning. Or neither of us could ever leave.

The thought seizes into an impulse, but I stop myself from getting up. Rein it back. Exhale and pull my hair behind my ears. Try to remember that there’s a rest of my life.

Before I came here I went over to Palmetto Bay, signed the lease, got the key, popped in to see my new apartment again. Turned on the lights and stood in the center of the living room until it sank in, that I’d really done it. I remembered the precise moment, back in December, when I’d realized that I had to move out of my place, that I couldn’t trust myself, that in the silence my terror would consume me. I remembered New Year’s, shooting those two holes into the wall. I remembered Rudy murdering me on my kitchen floor. I remembered all those nights I sobbed into Dexter’s shoulder, utterly inconsolable, after days of being completely unable to eat.

I remembered it all, but as if through a lens. I realized I felt just as safe in that empty apartment as I do at my brother’s place, as I do anywhere. That I might finally trust myself again. That I don’t hear his voice in my ear anymore. That I’m no longer half-convinced I really did die on the table.

It’s been 15 weeks since that night on the yacht. Maybe soon I’ll even stop counting.

I look over at the kettle as it whistles, then push myself up and walk over there, turn off the stove, pour the water into the pot. After setting it down, I start idly going through the cabinets, somewhat curious to see what’s in them, as my thoughts continue to ping-pong between Lundy and Brian Moser, the Butcher investigation, the endless pile of shit from Lenny Asher I spent my evening sifting through. Now that I’m up and doing something none of them stick, instead bounce around without much cogency. I find most of the cabinets are empty. For some reason, it’s disappointing.

“Looking for something?”

I turn back to see Lundy standing on the other side of the counter. “Nope,” I say, smiling at the sight of him. “Just being nosy.”

“I see.” He’s smiling too.

Nodding, I walk closer to the sink. “How long’s the tea supposed to steep?” I ask.

“Just a couple minutes.”

“Then it’s done.” He starts to move, and I wave my hand at him. “I got it.”

He nods as I grab the pot and pour it out into the cups. “Want to sit outside?” he asks.

I glance back at him. “I’d love to.”

“I’ve also got some ice cream bars in the freezer, if you’d care for dessert.”

I finish pouring, set the pot down. “Sounds good to me.”

He nods and walks around the counter, grabs a small tray from out of a drawer, then puts a couple napkins and the ice cream bars on top of it. Following his lead, I set the pot and the cups on it too.

“You’re so careful and deliberate about everything,” I say, laughing slightly as he grabs a small, glass jar of sugar from one of the cabinets I was investigating a second ago and places it on the tray next to the teapot.

He pulls something else from a drawer, then turns to me. His smile is dry, and he’s holding a tiny spoon in his hand. “I guess I am,” he says, putting it in the sugar jar.

“I should probably tell you now that I’m a total fucking slob,” I say.

He’s standing a couple feet from me, and once again the temperature is rising. I become acutely aware of it, as we look at each other, as the tea steams at our elbows.

“So you’re a crass, filthy slob?” he repeats my words back to me.

“Yeah,” I say, my tongue clicking softly against the roof of my mouth. “That about sums it up.”

“That’s…” he trails off as he studies me, smiling, “hot.”

I break out into a wider grin. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not. “Shut the fuck up,” I say, pulling him toward me.

He lets me in, and the world falls up. My thoughts go with it.


	59. Whole Lot of Nothing

__

_Whole Lot of Nothing  
_ _Setting: “Morning Comes”_

* * *

I grip the cigarette between my teeth as I sit up to pull my lighter out of my pocket, then sit back, light the thing. Pull it out of my mouth and exhale the smoke, pluck another notebook out of the shoe box sitting in front of me and flip it open, start reading. As usual, all it said on the front was ‘2002,’ but I’m already sure this is gonna just be as much of a waste of time as the rest have been.

_February 18th,  
_ _12:03AM. Strange noises outside. Someone may be trying to break into car. Saw nothing.  
_ _9:34AM. Strange noises again. May be a pattern??  
_ _1:32PM. Rodrigo leaving apartment. Threw bottle on lawn. Met someone at car with tinted windows. Too dark to see face. Exchanged something. Plates: 3JR2WL2._

I look at the last entry for a few seconds, sucking on the cigarette, debating whether or not to bother writing it down. I’ve got a long list of license plates at this point. Some of the ones I ran last night did indeed come back to guys with priors, and some of them didn’t, but either way no one in Narcotics is gonna have any interest in an account of every deal that went down on this particular stretch of road in Hialeah five years ago. I’ve been recording every plate in the hopes of finding a pattern, maybe a car that he saw coming around often at some particular time of day, but so far all the repeats have been drug related, and Lenny recorded the drivers as having met with Rodrigo. And while I guess it’s possible that the Butcher met with Rodrigo personally before murdering him, I doubt he was a repeat customer.

I’ve also been recording dates and times when someone from MMPD or the state police paid Rodrigo a visit, despite how dirty it makes me feel. Lenny didn’t write down plates or tag numbers for those cars, but if Lundy’s right about all this shit, it could’ve been one of those guys— _could_ have— and the date and time should be enough to figure out who they were, if it came to that.

Eventually I record the date and the plate, then flip the page and keep reading.

I only just relocated from my desk to one of the picnic tables outside. It’s nice out today, and I realized as I started going through this crap again that since I’ve got an option I don’t want to be cooped up indoors. And, besides, at least out here I can smoke. Between the cafecito and the cigarette, I already feel slightly more optimistic about this whole thing.

_February 20th,  
_ _8:54AM. Dead raccoon outside Martinez home. Called animal control because they did not.  
_ _1:39PM. Raccoon picked up. Animal control parked in front of hydrant. Reported.  
_ _7:35PM. Rodrigo having party. Cars parked down the street. Plates:_

I look at the long list of license plates that follow in that entry, adjust the cigarette in my mouth, and start scribbling them down. When it’s done, I flip the page again. And as I do I spot a familiar figure stalking out the doors across the way.

It’s Doakes.

Something strange curls up in my chest as I look at him.

He’s wearing a suit, but even without a tie he looks more formal than usual. Stiffer. I wonder if he just got out from IA over what he did to Dexter last week. I’m not sure why else he’d be here.

He notices me looking at him as he pulls his sunglasses out of his blazer and puts them on, and for a moment we make eye contact through our glasses. His face seems to soften a hair, and I have the sudden impression that he’s thinking about coming over here, that he wants to say something to me, but I don’t make a move to invite him closer. Because even though we were briefly partners, even though some part of me still likes him, maybe even considers him a distant friend, I can’t forgive him for what he did to my brother, for him holding onto whatever the fuck he’s been holding onto since the night I almost died.

And now when I look at him I can’t help wondering if it’s true, what Dexter said: that he had feelings for me. That that’s what all that was really about.

Even if it does seem so fucking ridiculous.

The moment passes, and he waves at me. I return it, but make no further indication that I want to talk to him. And then he drops his hand, looks away, and walks on toward the parking lot. Turns a corner and disappears.

I watch him go, stare absently at the spot he disappeared from. I have this weird, sudden precognition that that was the last time I’ll ever see him. If he was meeting with IA, I can’t imagine it went anything but poorly, and I can’t imagine he’s coming back. Its occurs to me I didn’t see his badge anywhere on him, and that all but confirms my feeling.

Part of me wants to get up and chase after him, ask him if it was worth it, ask him what the hell all of this has been about, but most of me doesn’t, and, after a couple beats, I relax into my seat, go back to looking at Lenny’s journal. Slowly put Doakes out of my mind as I flip the pages.

_February 24th,  
_ _10:13PM. Martinez dogs barking._

Rolling my eyes, I keep going. Eventually finish the journal, toss it in the box at my feet, grind out my cigarette, start pulling out random pieces of paper. Occasionally stop to write something down before tossing them, one by one, into the box too.

“How’s it going?”

I jump, look up to see Lundy’s standing across the table from me, his hands in his pockets. He smiles when we make eye contact, but his expression is tight all over.

“Hey,” I say, then shrug. “I’m still sorting through all this stuff.”

“Find anything yet?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“Good luck.”

I study him, fight the impulse to get up and move closer to him. “What’s up?” I ask instead, because his tension makes me uneasy. “You look tense.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing.”

My brows pinch slightly. “With you it’s never nothing,” I say. I feel a little more of that uneasiness as I squint at him. “Does it have to do with the Butcher investigation?”

“Too soon to say.”

I’m still searching him. “Is there a ‘yes’ buried in there?”

He shakes his head. “No. It really is too soon to say.”

“Hm,” I grunt, deciding to let it go. I check my watch. 11:36. “You come out here to join me for an early lunch then?” I ask instead, hopefully.

He smiles again. “Sadly, no. I’ve got to go up to the field office.” He glances behind him. “Ah, there they are now.”

I look behind him too, watch as what looks like every single one of his agents stream out of Miami Metro. Feel my apprehension tick up another notch. This is seeming less and less like nothing.

“When do you think you’ll be back?” I ask, even though I want to ask him for a third time what’s going on.

“I’m not sure of that either.”

I glance at the agents again, then back to him, lower my voice even though they’re well out of earshot. “Would you be available for dinner again tonight?”

His smile brightens a couple watts. “Definitely,” he says, also quietly.

“I could choose a place this time, or…” I trail off, let my grin twist, “I could make you my toast.”

He laughs, and I laugh too. And all at once I realize, despite the tension, despite the agents standing behind him, despite every, screamingly obvious concern about propriety, I want to get up and kiss him.

But it’s a doomed impulse, and I watch with a fading smile as he glances behind him again. “I really have to go now,” he says. “If it looks like I won’t end up seeing you again before the end of the day, I’ll call, and we can figure out some place to meet.”

My stomach is deflating. “Yeah, that sounds good,” I say.

He nods once. “Good luck with your search.”

“Thanks. Good luck with… whatever you’re doing.”

“Thanks.” That wry-ish smile is back on his face as he turns to go. I watch him as he rejoins his agents, track them as they walk out into the parking lot and start piling into their cars. I wonder what they have, and why he doesn’t want to talk about it. There’s no way they found anything here, but I can’t imagine why else he’d be grouping with his feds at the field office and evading my questions.

There’s just no way.

“Come on, Lenny,” I mutter as I grab another piece of paper. “Give me something.” You saw every other blessed fucking thing that went down in that neighborhood. If the Butcher took Rodrigo from his home, you would’ve seen it. You would’ve written it down. Just give me something.

_September 8th,  
_ _4:56PM. Car parked illegally in handicap zone in front of Publix. Plate: JUGZ2HUG_

“Fuck,” I murmur. Not that I’d really expected my vague call to god and the universe to get me anything. Fucking Batista and his actualization bullshit.

Exhaling, I reach into my pocket for another cigarette.


	60. Knowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with chapter 55 (and with a lot of this fic), this scene isn’t tonally consistent with where Deb was emotionally in the morning of 2.09, but for several reasons I needed this scene to be here, on this specific night. I’m assuming that if you’ve gotten this far you’re used to the relationship my lite rewrite has with the canon, but, as usual, when there’s an obvious break off in tone I like to acknowledge it.

__

_Knowing  
_ _Setting: “Morning Comes”_

* * *

11:32.

I look absently at the clock, not really absorbing the time, as my stomach churns. I feel sick. And the same thought keeps occurring to me, repeating over and over, cutting through anything else I manage to get myself to think about:

_The Bay Harbor Butcher is one of our own._

There’s nothing left to explain it away, no way around it. There’s a serial killer working out of our department, and by now it must be abundantly clear to him that the feds, at the least, have realized that. Once Lundy releases this to the rest of the task force, it’ll reach every corner of the building in a microsecond. He’ll know we’re closing the net.

My stomach lurches, as nausea laps at the base of my tongue. As I continue following the thread.

And I think Lundy suspects someone. When I asked he wouldn’t tell me, and I didn’t press. I don’t want to know. I’m too afraid to know. But it must not be anyone in the task force itself, or he would’ve shut us out. Not that it isn’t completely fucking batshit, the thought of it. That it could be someone in our department.

I exhale, stare out the blinds at the sliver of Biscayne Bay that’s visible between a couple other high rises.

No. It’s impossible. In a fucking squad full of homicide detectives, it’s impossible that he could be one of us.

Right?

( _you didn’t see it in Rudy_ )

I barely knew him.

( _no one saw it not even Tony Tucci and he sawed his limbs off_ )

( _and you were fucking him_ )

( _you wanted to marry him you were in love with him you let him put that ring on your finger_ )

Fuck.

( _you loved him you never saw it you never caught it you never wanted to see that anything was wrong_ )

Fucking cock fuck.

My guts are twisting around themselves, and my heart is squeezing as it shoves its way up my throat. I feel sick, and helpless to stop what’s happening.

Flinch as something brushes my back— Lundy’s hand sliding across my waist. “You alright?” he asks.

I take his hand, rub my thumb against his skin as I turn to glance at him. He was asleep earlier. I didn’t notice that he’d woken up.

“Still pretty fucked up over this,” I reply softly, glad he’s up.

He’s silent for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry,” he says.

I let go of his hand and roll over to face him. Those shitty vertical blinds aren’t doing much to block out the city lights, so even in the dark I can mostly make him out. His expression is heavy.

I don’t know what I want to say, or if I want to say anything. I want to move closer to him, but I like being able to see him. It’s strangely calming to trace the contours of his face: eyelashes, down the angle of his nose, mouth, lips. The creases in his skin look deeper in the dark, and more obvious. Somehow on him they seem beautiful.

He reaches over and smooths some of my hair back, then rests his hand on my chest.

 _Who is it?_ I want to ask. Because I realize as I look at him that he knows. He doesn’t just suspect someone. He knows who it is. Maybe he’s even known it for awhile, ever since he made his pronouncement of the manifesto. That’s what he and his feds have been up to, while he sent the rest of us in Homicide to chase paper geese.

But I can’t form the words, and I close my eyes as he traces my collarbone with his thumb. I’m sure he wouldn’t tell me anyway.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks eventually, after a few seconds of this.

I open my eyes again, find his gaze, promptly lose it again. “Not really,” I say to the sheet, only to find myself revising, “I don’t know.”

Without deciding to do it, I shift closer to him, move his arm out of the way so I can lay my head on his chest. He shifts his displaced arm around me, and he starts to stroke my hair as I exhale, stare at a patch of light reflecting off the wall. The contact is comforting. Somehow, the fact that I can’t see his eyes anymore is comforting too. It makes it seem safer to talk.

Because I do want to talk.

“I finally realized something the other day,” I admit quietly. “About what happened to me.” I pause. “About Brian Moser.”

His hand hitches at my having brought it up, and I open my mouth again before he can say anything. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m an asshole. I keep dumping all this shit on you, and I haven’t bothered asking if you even want to hear about it.”

He starts massaging my hairline again. “You can tell me anything you need to, or want to,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel alone in your thoughts.”

Something pings in my chest, stings my eyes. “Thanks,” I muster, somewhat lamely.

But for awhile I don’t continue. I can’t seem to. I feel a sudden flush of fear, because even here, safe in the dark and in the middle of the night and a little drunk, even with his permission, it all still scares the shit out of me.

But the compulsion to share is overwhelming, and, without even really meaning to, I’m talking. “After he dragged me into that garage and knocked me out,” I start, “after he stripped me and wrapped me up in plastic, he just… turned off the lights and left me there.” My voice sounds oddly calm. “I woke up twice, in the dark. Both times he heard me, and he came to put me out again. I don’t know how much time passed in between. I don’t know what he did to me in between.” I pause. “I don’t think he _did_ do anything to me in between. I think he just drugged me, turned off the lights, and went back into the house.”

Lundy doesn’t say anything, but he hugs me a little tighter to his chest, keeps stroking my hair.

I keep going. “But that’s what I didn’t understand,” I say. “It never made any fucking sense. Why keep me unconscious? Why keep me at all? His tools were there. I was there. I couldn’t do anything to help myself. Why didn’t he just start cutting into me the first time I woke up? I kept asking myself why I…” I swallow again. “I couldn’t understand how I survived. He had me for 28 hours, and I don’t know how much of that I spent on that table. All that time he could’ve been torturing me to death, and I know he wanted to. I _felt_ it. But he didn’t. He didn’t leave me in the dark to think, and he didn’t really talk to me either. He just wanted to keep me quiet.” I pause. “And then Dex and half the cops in the county show up, and he tried and failed to stab me before making a run for it. Beyond a couple bruises, he never actually hurt me.” I stop again, then add, just barely above a whisper, “And then he was just… dead.”

Lundy inhales like he wants to say something, but, apparently, decides to let it go.

So I continue. “It’s been bothering me, why I lived, why he didn’t hurt me, after all those other girls he murdered, after what he did to Tony Tucci. I don’t know if you know what he did to Tucci. I can’t remember—”

“I do,” he cuts me off gently.

It takes a second for me to speak again. “He just kept fucking cutting him, over and over.” I can see that filthy fucking hospital basement, see Tucci just as I found him that night. Practically smell the piss and the iron.

I push the images away. “But he didn’t touch me.” I can’t get away from that point. “He didn’t even start. And now I think I finally know why. It wasn’t just that he wanted to kill me for the Bay Harbor Butcher. He wanted to kill me _with_ the Butcher. He brought me all the way the fuck out to that house in bumblefuck and kept me drugged in that garage so he could wait for the Butcher. I wasn’t just a gift. I was a fucking craft project.”

I exhale. “And now we know what we know, that the Butcher is someone in Miami Metro. He could be anyone. He could even be someone I know— maybe someone I used to work with in Vice, someone in Homicide.”

Abruptly, I turn around to look at Lundy, try to find something in his face, in the dark. I don’t know what.

It hurts to see the pity there.

“For a long time now I’ve thought Moser must’ve been stalking me,” I say, glancing away, “long before we met. I don’t think it’s a coincidence he dumped his third victim in the pool at the motel I was working out of when I was with Vice. It can’t be a coincidence that his fifth victim was one of the prostitutes I knew when I was undercover, who was, more or less, my friend. I’m certain he was the tipster who called to tell us where Tucci was. He addressed that message specifically to me, because he wanted me to be the one to find him.” I exhale. “I don’t think he could’ve known that we’d meet over Tucci’s hospital bed, but, who knows, maybe he did. He was the hospital’s fucking prosthetics guy, and he’d sawed off two of that poor bastard’s limbs. Who else would’ve been assigned to replace them?”

I meet his eyes again. “What I couldn’t figure out was how. _Why?_ Why me? Of every cop in the city, why fixate on me? It’s not like I ever busted him, ever met him before. Beyond both being from south Florida, beyond us both having lost our parents when we were kids, we didn’t have a single fucking connection. Yet he latched onto me, and he wanted to rip me apart. _Why?_ ”

“I don’t know,” he says quietly.

“I think I do now,” I say, searching him again, this time maybe just to will him to follow my train of thought. “The Butcher’s a cop. Moser wouldn’t have had any reason to know I existed— I mean, fuck, when he dumped Mendoza in that pool I was undercover, and had been for a long time. But someone in Miami Metro would’ve known who I was. A fellow cop.”

His lips part as he cottons on to what I’m saying, and he stops stroking my hair as I push myself up onto my elbow to look a little down at him.

“The Butcher fed me to the Ice Truck Killer,” I say, with a conviction I hadn’t fully realized before this precise moment. “It was all just a game to them, from the start. It’s the only thing that makes any fucking sense. I still don’t know _why_ , but I think I’ll finally find out when we catch him.”

He doesn’t reply immediately, and I find myself studying him again, but I’m looking for something else this time. Something specific.

“You know who it is,” I say. “I know you suspect someone. Finding that license plate tonight was just confirmation for you.”

Again he doesn’t answer, but I’m as certain about this now as I was a few minutes ago. And it still makes me fucking nauseous.

“Who is it?” I press.

“I can’t tell you,” he says finally. “Not until we know for certain.”

“For you to believe it, you must be all but certain. You’re too good to jump the gun.”

Now he’s looking away.

“Tell me.”

“Debra…” he sits up and reaches for my shoulder, squeezes it, “trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to know. Until I’m certain, if and until the direction of our investigation becomes inevitable, you don’t want to know. It would be too much of a burden.”

There’s something very strange about the way he’s looking at me, something that I can’t define but nonetheless sends a thrill of fear shooting through my core. Because he’s all but confirmed that it’s someone I know, maybe not even just peripherally, and now it seems very possible that all this shit I thought up may in fact be true.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask, still trying to read him like he seems to be able to read me.

“I don’t know,” he says. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops, seemingly lost for words. My anxiety ratchets up another notch.

It’s so bad he doesn’t want to say it.

“I don’t want you to worry about it,” he says eventually, when I don’t speak again. “I’m not as certain as you think I am. There are a few people I’m looking at, yes, but I don’t have anything concrete. It’s possible that none of them are guilty.”

“But not probable?” I can’t help asking.

“It’s too soon for me to answer that.”

I don’t know what to do with that either. Fucking impenetrable, practiced, FBI answer.

“Does what I’m saying make any sense?” I ask, instead of saying that. “Do you think one of them could’ve been in communication with the Ice Truck Killer?”

He squeezes my shoulder again. “I can’t say,” he says, unhelpfully. I can’t tell if he’s lying.

For a long moment I keep searching him, trying, somehow, to divine the answer from him, but all I hear in the silence is coming from the street. A couple cars going by. A distant muffler. Voices, maybe coming from some other apartment, maybe not.

Eventually I lay back down on his chest, turn over to look at that patch of light again. He goes back to stroking my hair.

I wish I had a cigarette, or something to drink. Or both. I don’t fucking want to think about this anymore. Because, of course, now all I can think is that it is someone I know, and I’m running through names and faces. Of the people I know don’t like me, only one comes immediately to mind.

“Is it LaGuerta?” I ask. Mostly sarcastically.

He snorts. “No.”

I smile, but it fades as I reach back for his hand and take it, adjust my head against his ribs. He’s a little bony.

For awhile we lay in silence. Eventually he slides back down onto his back, releasing a long breath as he goes. I listen to the street noise, try to focus on the present. The feel of his skin against my cheek and my palms, the weight and warmth of the blanket, the cadence of our breath. That grounding shit the department shrink was always going on about.

The fear sort of recedes. It’s not exactly unfamiliar, this feeling that there’s not a fucking thing I can do, for myself or anything else. It wouldn’t make any difference if Lundy told me who he suspects. If anything, if it’s as bad as it feels, I could end up freaking out and tipping him off. Or worse. Cornering him and asking for an explanation.

Or fucking shooting him.

But as I calm down I find myself thinking about Moser again, other questions, other thoughts. Because it turns out the topic’s like some internal, never-ending shit pile, and I’m at the bottom of it.

“There’s another thing I don’t understand,” I say to the corner of the room. “If I’m right and Moser really was working with the Butcher, why did he kill himself? He was a lot of things, but I didn’t think suicidal was one of them. Why didn’t the Butcher help him flee the state?” I pause. “Why did he let me go? Why didn’t the Butcher help him get to me?”

It’s a beat before Lundy replies. “Do you want my honest opinion?” he asks.

I hesitate, unsure how to interpret his tone. “Always,” I say.

“I think you’re right that there was some kind of connection between Brian Moser and our killer, and that they were at some point in communication, but I don’t think they were as close as you think they were, at least in the way you think they were. You don’t fall anywhere near the Butcher’s usual victim profile.” He inhales, like once again he’s struggling with how best to word something. “I think you may’ve been right the first time you approached me, that Moser might’ve been targeting you out of some twisted sense of irony.”

I look at him again. “Then why leave me strapped to that table? And how the hell did he even know about me to begin with?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But he didn’t mention the Butcher in his note, or leave any suggestion that he wasn’t working alone. If he was going to name him, that would’ve been the time. He didn’t have anything to lose.”

Note?

My brows fold as I get caught on that word. “What note?” I ask.

“His suicide note.”

I stare at him, as something small seems to shift and tumble down inside me.

“You did know he left a note?”

I swallow. “No,” I say finally. “I got to the scene late, after they’d already started processing it. I only saw some of what they collected from his place.” A fucking Barbie record player and a fake arm. Rows of empty, bloodied buckets.

Their names on masking tape.

Now his brows are descending. “You went to the scene?”

“Yeah,” I say. I forgot I never told him that, but, despite the look on his face, I don’t feel like going into it. I’m still digesting this new piece of information, that he left a note.

“What did it say?” I ask, not sure if I even want to know the answer.

He exhales. “That he got away with it,” he says after a beat, his tone slightly harder than usual.

I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. “That’s it?” I ask finally.

“That’s it.”

I realize that I feel empty as I look at him now, suddenly and deeply. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with any of this.

I imagine him writing that down before going into his custom meat locker— the one I somehow never fucking noticed —setting down that fucking turkey tray and stringing himself up, cutting his own throat. His final scene: neat and clean, as always. He got away with it. As 20 miles away I paced terrified around my hospital room, waiting for him to jump out the window, out of a shadow, from the doorway.

As somewhere else the Butcher, ass reclined on his boat, motored back into the shadows.

He got away with it.

_He got away with it._

I can’t face Lundy anymore, but I can’t break contact either. I flip back over and pull the blanket up, push my hair back behind one shoulder, take a breath, let it go. Slowly.

It’s all just fucked. No matter how far I dig, it’s just more shit. I didn’t need to know that, but now I do. It doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t matter. It just… is.

And I can feel it now, finally smell the storm of fuck gathering on our horizon as the Butcher investigation keeps building. I remember what it felt like that night, when Doakes and I were pushing pins into a map of downtown, looking for the Ice Truck Killer. I knew that we were closing in, that we were days away from it all being over. Less than two hours later Rudy crushed the breath out of me on that yacht.

I don’t know what’s going to happen once the shit about that license plate reaches the rest of the station. I don’t know what’s going to happen when Lundy goes to LaGuerta and tells her to help entrap someone in our own department. Someone who’s armed. Someone who may’ve figured out by now that their time is up. Someone who may not allow themselves to be arrested.

_He got away with it._

“This is going to get bad, isn’t it?” I find myself asking.

Again he’s quiet. For once I find his carefulness a little grating.

“Yes,” he admits, after a long pause.

I take a second to absorb that before nodding. Closing my eyes.

I don’t say anything. I don’t think there’s anything left to say. And I’m fucking sick of talking.


	61. Withholding

__

_Withholding  
_ _Setting: “Resistance is Futile”_

* * *

I drop the last of my bags on top of the other ones that are clogging up my entryway before turning to shut and lock the door. Then I step over the pile to go set my keys next to my purse on the cabinet I brought here earlier, tuck my hair back behind my ears and puff out a breath.

Fuck, I’m done. I’ve made two trips schlepping my shit from the storage unit to here in my tiny-ass car, then a trip to Home Depot to get yet more shit, and I know I’m not halfway done, but my resolution has thinned for the night.

I grab one of the bags off the pile, then walk deeper into my new place, where there’s nowhere to sit except the pile of pillows on the floor and the bench for the piano that was left here from the previous occupants that neither I nor the landlord feel like paying to remove. After a second’s debate, I walk over to a wall and sit against it, setting the bag beside me as I settle. Reach inside for the pork souvlaki I picked up from the Greek place on my way home.

Home.

I pull some meat off the skewer with my fork, mash it into the rice before eating it.

I’m still not quite used to it. I’ve got a bed being delivered here tomorrow, and at some point I’ve got to enlist Dex and his van to help me move the few larger pieces of furniture I held onto from the storage unit out. And then I’ll fucking finally be an adult again, instead of the co-dependent mess I’ve been since I cracked back on New Year’s, melted down and shot those two holes in my wall.

I wince internally as I spear some salad and eat that too.

Fifteen weeks.

It’s been fifteen weeks and a couple days since he died.

I sip some Diet Coke. Keep eating.

With the FBI having shut MMPD out of the Bay Harbor case, work on our side of the aisle ground to a halt today. We spent most of the day speculating half seriously about who it could be, but we were all on edge. There was no briefing, no communication with the other half of the task force, and around lunch they shut the blinds and locked the door. We’re all convinced that they have a suspect, and I all the more from the way Lundy shot out of bed this morning, and from our conversation last night. Despite what he said, I can’t shake the thought that whoever it is was working with Brian Moser, one way or another, and I spent most of the day running through everyone I knew in Vice, even, eventually, people from the Academy, people from patrol. People from Homicide. That I didn’t share with Batista, or anyone else. I ended up cutting out early, and by the time I did I was feeling like a paranoid fucking nut case. For once, it was a relief to go.

Leaving without being able to talk to Lundy again was frustrating though. I called him a couple hours ago and he still wasn’t able to talk, wasn’t able to tell me if he’d even be home tonight. All this Butcher shit aside, I wanted to see him outside of work.

Lundy…

I pour some of the white sauce into the rice and mix it around before eating some more of it.

Everyone’s convinced I know more than I’m saying, as if for a second I’d withhold from the department. As if Lundy would tell me anything he didn’t want the rest of us to know. Not that Batista didn’t do exactly what Lundy said not to do. By the time I got in this morning, everyone in Homicide, and, I’m sure, the rest of the station house, knew about the license plate. At this point there’s no way the Butcher doesn’t know about it too. It’s no fucking wonder Lundy locked the door.

Though there’s some truth to their shit: I didn’t tell anyone what he told me. I still don’t know what to do with it. I’ve had our conversation flashing through my head on constant repeat since this morning.

“ _Honestly, you don’t want to know.”_

I don’t know what to do with it, and I don’t know what the rest of the department would do with it either. Maybe they wouldn’t want to believe me. I’ve been having this distant, terrible, recurring thought, that maybe it could be someone in Homicide. I keep burying it every time it surfaces, but there was something in Lundy’s face. Something that makes it keep coming back, no matter how much dirt I pile on top of it.

But as to who it could be, that I don’t know. Even idly, it wasn’t something I could really stand to consider, that it could be someone I was talking to today. Someone I share the pen with. Someone I eat Dex’s doughnuts with.

Someone who fed me to the Ice Truck Killer.

I eat the rest of the salad, a little too rapidly. The rest of the pork and the rice. Trying to shove it down into another pit. Deep deep down.

But it doesn’t really work, as I shove the the containers back into the bag and wipe my hands and mouth on the napkins. As I get up with the bag and the Coke and deposit both on my crowded kitchen counter. As I head over to the bags in the hall and start moving them into the rooms where they belong. As I start unpacking.

I don’t know who it could be. Don’t have a clue. It can’t be someone in Homicide. There’s no way I couldn’t see it twice. That I could really be so fucking retarded. That someone I work with every day could’ve done what he did to me, and that I don’t see it in him. That someone else in my life really could be that empty, that sociopathic, and, somehow, remain opaque to me.

That, somehow, he’s fooling all of us, the entire Miami PD. We’ve got bodies dating back to 1996. He’s been doing this since I was still in college.

How? How could anyone be that invisible?

I’m shoving a pack of toilet paper under the bathroom sink when I can’t take it anymore. I wish I’d brought my sound system, or my TV. Something. Anything. Noise.

I take the toilet plunger and brush set from the trash bin I transported them home in, set both next to the toilet, then head out and grab my purse from off the cabinet. I’m halfway to my cigarettes when I change my mind, reach for my phone instead. The time reads 10:02 when I flip it open. Dial.

He answers on the fourth ring.

“Hello,” Lundy says.

“Can you talk?” I ask, though I can already tell, even from those two syllables, that the answer is no.

I hear the phone adjust, and the background noise suddenly cuts to nothing. “For a moment,” he says, after a beat.

It’s weird, how relieving that is. “Are you still at the station?” I guess.

He hesitates. “Yes,” he says.

I stop myself from asking why, or what’s going on. It’d be a waste of breath. “So I probably won’t be seeing you tonight?” I ask instead.

“No, I’m sorry to say.” His exhale hits the phone receiver. “And I’m sorry I couldn’t be around to help you move.”

Yeah, I’m sorry about that too. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You said you won’t have your bed until tomorrow?”

I want to make a joke, but his tone and this whole situation stops me. “No,” I say.

“Do you need somewhere to stay the night? I can’t guarantee I’ll be home, but I can get you my key.”

I pause, think aloud, “Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it, but I’ll just go back to my brother’s place. It’s pretty close.” And I don’t really want to stay there anyway, waiting in the silence for him. Because if and when he does come back, I know I’m not going to be able to pretend there’s nothing going on. “Thanks for the offer though,” I add.

“Of course.”

 _What’s going on?_ “So did you find time to eat?”

“We had something delivered. What about you?”

 _Who is it?_ “I picked something up from a Greek place near here.”

“How was it?”

 _What’s keeping you at the station so late?_ “It was good. How about yours?”

“Good. We used that Italian restaurant again.”

 _Why are we even talking about this?_ “Yeah, they are good.”

“It was a good recommendation.”

There’s an awkward pause. I wonder if, from the other end of the air waves, he can read my thoughts.

“I should get back to it,” he says finally, and I feel a drop of disappointment. Not that this conversation really meant anything anyway.

“Yeah. I’ll let you go.”

Again he hesitates. I picture him, standing alone in the hallway outside the briefing room, or wherever he is, his brows creased, his hand in his pocket. There’s a slight uptick in excitement, or maybe nervousness, as I wait for him to speak. As I wait for him to tell me what the fuck is going on over there. Because I know he knows that that’s why I called.

Then, “Goodnight, Debra,” he says.

Fuck. “Goodnight… Special Agent Lundy,” I say.

I hear him snort, and then the call ends. I close it slowly. Click my tongue against my teeth.

I don’t feel any better now than I did a few minutes ago. He’s still at the station, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to be back tonight. They must be executing something, maybe waiting for a warrant or setting a trap for the morning. I wonder if I’m going to get a call at 6AM about a stand off at some cop’s house. Going to come in to work to find a swarm of reporters and the entire department standing outside one of the interrogation rooms.

Or I’m going to find out he fucking hung himself, ate a bullet, whatever. That that’s what the feds are a couple hours from finding.

Again I start running through names and faces in flash frame. Again find myself reaching for my cigarettes.

Stop myself.

I need to go. Maybe Dexter will have some ideas. I haven’t really had the chance to talk to him today, or in the last couple days, and I could use his level head. And as a bonus he finally broke it off with Amy Winehouse, so his place will be mercifully free of her fucking horse teeth and fake, shrieky laughter.

Besides, I could use a shower, and I forgot to buy a shower curtain. And most of my clothes are still over there anyway.

Still holding the cigarette box, I go over and grab the trash off my counter, then my keys and my purse before heading for the door, unlocking it, pulling it open. I pause at the doorway for a half a second, my hand on the light switch, as I look back into my apartment, some muzzy thought swimming just below the surface. It slips away before I can reach for it, and then it’s gone, so completely I’m not sure it ever actually came.

I blink.

Fucking whatever.

I flip the light, shut the door and lock it. Stick a cigarette between my teeth as I head in the direction of the parking lot. Light it up.


	62. The Butcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a scene continuation, so some borrowed dialogue.
> 
> Also, there’s some temporal flexibility here, since it doesn’t seem like canonically there was actually time for Deb to have gotten the news about Doakes, despite the fact that she clearly found out somehow, and from her conversation with Lundy in the break area, it doesn’t seem like he told her when he called. I guess it’s possible that he did and I misinterpreted what she said, but I like this version of events better, so whatever. Here’s this scene.

__

_The Butcher  
_ _Setting: “Resistance is Futile”_

* * *

“I’m right behind you. They’re calling us in. I’m right behind you, Dex.”

I let the door shut on Dexter and the suits as I flip my phone open, heading for the closet. My heart rate’s already jacked.

“What’s going on?” I answer as I yank open the door, the thought of niceties only occurring to me as the words leave my mouth.

“We’ve got a suspect on the Bay Harbor case,” Lundy says.

“Yeah, I figured out that much from the way your suits just hauled Dexter out of here.” I cradle the phone on my shoulder as I pull out the first shirt and pants I see, grab a belt and a bra from off the suitcase. “By the way, what the fuck was that? They practically perp walked him out the door.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds distracted. “We needed to get him to the precinct as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, I got that too.” I slip off my pants and toss them toward the couch. “So what the fuck is going on? Have you arrested someone?”

“Not exactly. I’ll explain everything when you get here.”

“What’s wrong with explaining everything now?”

“Trust me, you’re not going to want to hear it over the phone.”

I pause halfway into my slacks, as a wash of fear pours down my guts. “Now I really fucking wanna know.”

There’s a bunch of sounds in the background, voices or something, and then I hear something muffled, like maybe he’s put his hand over the phone. My anxiety is ratcheting up. I strain to pick out a word, but catch nothing.

“I’m sorry,” his voice comes back abruptly, “but I’ve got to go.”

“Wait—”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You’ll find out everything when you get here.”

“How bad is it?” I say, half over him.

He’s quiet for a beat, and all there is is background noise. I wonder if maybe he didn’t hear me. Then, “Bad,” he says.

Another wash of ice water. “I’ll be there soon,” I say.

He hangs up.

Slowly, after a second, I shut the phone, feeling nothing beyond my pulse throbbing behind my jaw, as my gaze zeroes down on a thread sticking up out of a couch pillow. It’s all I can focus on as I try to digest whatever just happened: Lundy’s words, the sight of my brother getting subsumed into a federal entourage. It’s bad. It’s someone in Homicide. This is the end. It’s over.

He’s one of us.

Then I pull myself together.

I toss the phone on the couch, rip off my shirt. Bra, button the blouse, find some socks, grab my boots and zip them up. I run my belt through the loops as I head to the bathroom, cinch it as I check my make up in the mirror. Retouch the liner and mascara, reapply some concealer. Run a comb through my hair. Fuck it, it can dry on the drive. And then I’m out again to collect the rest of my shit. Clip my gun to my belt, grab my purse. Watch and badge are on the counter. I stick the badge on my belt too. Put on the watch. Pause when it’s done. I’m missing something. Fuck, what am I missing?

Phone. Where’s my phone?

I look around, unable to remember, feeling more annoyed by the microsecond. I think about grabbing the land line and calling it. Then I remember it’s on the couch.

Fucking don’t have time for this.

I retrieve it from off my discarded pants, head for the door. Lock it behind me. I’m halfway down the stairs when I remember I forgot to turn off the lights, but I don’t care enough to go back. Less than a minute later, I’m backing my car out of the lot, wishing I had a gumball. I kill the radio. I can’t listen to it.

As I speed down the causeway, my thoughts flash rapid fire, and my stomach churns. It’s someone in Homicide. They haven’t made an arrest. What does ‘not exactly’ mean? Did they issue a warrant? Did he run? Is he dead? By his own hand? By some fed’s?

Every name, every face in the department. For all our speculation, for all my thoughts, even knowing it’s one of us, I don’t know who it is. It still seems impossible. Fucking batshit.

But it’s true.

He’s one of us.

He’s one of us.

That’s the loop I get stuck on, as I veer onto Biscayne Boulevard, driving as if I’m in a patrol unit instead of my car. I pray no one from FHP is out. I thank god there’s no traffic, as I hopscotch between lanes, as I speed, magnetized, back toward the station. I have to know. I have to get there.

He’s one of us.

20 minutes later, I’m pulling into a space behind the station. My heart is beating in my ears again as I turn off the engine, grab my shit, and get out of the car. In a blink I’m riding the elevator up, and the moment the doors ding open I’m heading into Homicide.

It’s weird when I finally get here, because everything looks exactly the same as it did when I left. I’d been half expecting to find nothing here. That maybe the entire department had been obliterated, or blown up, or sucked into space. Everything seems… normal, as I walk to the pen, as I pick up the low hum of voices, as I start seeing who’s gathered around. Who’s still here.

Who isn’t him.

Batista. LaGuerta. Masuka. Ramos. Weiss. Hill. Soderquist. Yale. Simms. Lopez. Bliloc.

There are suits all around the hall. Uniforms. I don’t see Lundy or Dexter or any of the feds from his entourage anywhere. From here I can’t see into the briefing room. Maybe they’re in there.

I stop at the threshold to the pen, as something crawls through my heart, some malformed realization. Cold and horrible. Something in LaGuerta’s face. She’s the first to look in my direction, but her gaze goes right through and beyond me as I walk over, seems to end up somewhere in Kolkata. They’re all sitting around Batista’s desk.

“How long did you know?”

I look behind her, at Masuka, who spoke, then at Batista. He’s looking at me in that same, vaguely accusatory way that Masuka is. It instantly pisses me off.

Something defensive springs to my lips. “I _still_ don’t—” But I stop as I spot the piece of paper sitting on Batista’s desk. Read the words. Stare at the picture.

Doakes.

“Doakes,” I say. Think I say.

Doakes.

Doakes is the Bay Harbor Butcher.

It feels, suddenly, like I’ve been scooped out of myself with an ice cream baller and deposited somewhere else.

“Didn’t you know?”

I don’t know who said that. Distantly, I smell beer. For some reason.

I realize when I look at him that it’s coming from Batista, the beer smell. And that he’s the one who spoke.

“No,” I say. “How the fuck would I have known?”

He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “We just figured Lundy—”

“Lundy didn’t tell me shit, just like he hasn’t told me shit the entire fucking day.” I don’t know what I feel as I look at him, as I look at Masuka. But suddenly I understand what I’m seeing on LaGuerta’s face.

It’s grief.

“What the fuck happened between now and four o’clock?” I ask, plucking the BOLO off his desk.

Batista rubs his neck. “We don’t have all the details yet, but Lundy and his team found Doakes’ car parked at Opa-locka Airport. In the trunk they found a box of what he’s pretty sure are blood slides.”

“Blood slides?” I repeat blankly. The words on the paper swim in front of me. I look up.

“Lundy thinks they may be trophies.”

“There’s an explanation,” LaGuerta says to Batista.

Masuka makes a face. I can’t interpret it. I think I hopped the train to Kolkata with the LT.

“Why would they be in his car?” I ask. The word **B.O.L.O.** is floating beneath my nose. I put the paper back down.

“I don’t know.” Batista shrugs, a little helplessly. He hesitates before adding, “There were a lot of slides.”

It’s sinking in, that this is real. “How many is a lot?”

“Matthews said almost 50.”

“50?” I repeat. The number seems to jam up in my brain. It can’t be right. “‘50’? Not 15?”

“50,” he affirms.

I stare at him for a second, then glance away, look at Doakes’ desk, through the glass, at the elevator. At Masuka. Away again. I don’t know how to process that. We have 18 victims. Now he’s saying there are 32 more. At least. That’s assuming he took a trophy every time, for every person he ever murdered.

He.

Doakes took them.

He cut their fucking cheeks. Put them in trash bags.

“Fuck,” I murmur, without intention.

“That about sums it up,” Masuka says. I look at him again. He seems bizarrely unaffected, even for him. His feet are up on the desk.

I want to say something about it, but for once I have no words. Doakes is the Butcher. He was my partner. Except for Batista, he’s the one I’ve by far spent the most time with since joining the department. And when he went home he was fucking murdering people. Chopping them up into pieces.

It’s so absurd. It’s fucking insane.

And then that thought finally scratches its way into my consciousness. Leaves a trail of sulfur behind.

It was Doakes. Doakes fed me to Brian Moser.

It was him.

He knew.

He knew what was going to happen to me.

Anger flares up, starts eating away at the confusion, and my thoughts. I glance back at LaGuerta, but she’s still in another subcontinent.

“Matthews and Lundy are coordinating on the manhunt,” Batista says, dragging my attention back to him. “They’ve already contacted border patrol, but—”

“His car was found at the airport?” I cut him off.

After a beat, “Yeah,” he says.

“He fucking ran,” I say. “He saw the writing on the wall and he fucking ran.”

“There’s something else going on,” LaGuerta says, finally, actually looking at me. “There’s an explanation. We just don’t have it yet.”

I scoff. “Like what? How could you possibly fucking explain this?”

She doesn’t even look angry. Her expression is an open wound, but I’m getting too upset to care.

“50 fucking people,” I say. And all I can see are names on empty buckets. I feel fucking nauseated.

She says nothing. She’s retreated again.

I look at Batista. And then I look past him toward my brother’s office, as a new thought occurs to me, one that scares me even before it manages to complete itself. “Where’s Dexter?” I ask.

“He’s with Matthews and Lundy in the briefing room.”

I glance over there, but the blinds are still pulled. I’m hit with the impulse to march over there, if anything just to confirm that he’s really in there, but I curb it. Instead find myself staring at all the feds. It’s a fucking fed palooza in our halls right now. They’re everywhere. It looks like the entire fucking field office came out to occupy Miami Metro.

Distantly, I wonder if that _is_ exactly why they’re here. If they suspect any of us may’ve been helping him, or still are.

My gaze slides back over to LaGuerta. I try to reinterpret her expression.

No. She didn’t know.

Then again, I don’t know anymore. Apparently, I have no instincts. She could be fucking _constructed_ out of freeze-dried horse shit and I wouldn’t smell it, wouldn’t have a clue. For that matter, so could fucking anyone.

My feelings are swirling into a whirlpool. But fear is starting to mix with the shock and the fury, as a new thought paves over my doubts about LaGuerta. Because what if Doakes didn’t run at all? For as much as I can’t imagine him as a serial killer, I can imagine him as a runner even less. He was spec ops for fuck’s sake. He’s been treating Miami as his own personal murder safari for over a decade. There’s every chance he never got on a plane. That he just dumped his car at the airport. That he may even have wanted it found.

So where the fuck is he?

Once he knows he’s cornered, what the fuck is he gonna do? Somehow I don’t see him following Moser’s lead.

And suddenly it occurs to me why Lundy had Dexter brought here under armed guard. That wasn’t an escort: it was a detail. He thinks Doakes might go after him.

God fucking fuck.

I refocus on Batista. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing in silence. All around us people are talking about Doakes. None of us have said a word.

But I find I don’t know what to say, and I realize I don’t want to be standing here anymore. I need to talk to my brother. I need to be there for him. I need to do something. But he’s sequestered with Lundy, and out of my reach.

God fucking fuck.

So I move away, stick my purse on my chair before heading to Dexter’s office to wait there. And when I get there I cross my arms and hug my waist, my thoughts rapidly decoupling from words.

( _“Call it an homage”_ )

I see myself on the yacht, with him. I wonder if Doakes called him when I left, warned him we had his address under a thumbtack. I can’t remember if contacting FLP was my idea. It must’ve been.

I can’t imagine him talking to Moser. That he had his phone number. That he stood there and watched Monique Santos get her throat cut open and felt nothing.

I don’t know whether I believe myself or Lundy, about how much they knew each other. If they truly did.

I remember being on that table, the world filtering in through a druggy haze. Doakes’ voice over the radio. He said he got away. Did he help him escape? What if he helped him get back to his apartment too? I never could understand how he got in there at all, with half the state looking for him…

And then I’m sitting on the back of the ambulance again. Doakes was going after Dexter. I was so fucking angry.

Was he pissed he found me?

Was he planning to come there that night and…

( _knives_ )

( _on that steel tray_ )

I can’t.

I feel fucking sick.

And it smells like fucking chemicals in here.

I step out of the office and into the hall. But I don’t know what to do. I’m still hugging my waist.

Dexter. He attacked him. I’m not the only one who’s worried: Lundy’s assigned a detail to him, was concerned enough that he plucked him from his apartment like a grape. What if something happens to him? Doakes was spec ops. Doakes is a serial killer. Doakes has killed 50 fucking people. What’s a fucking lab tech? I’m a trained cop, and Rudy took me down like a fucking sack of potatoes, and dragged me around like one, even before he drugged me.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

I can’t let anything happen to him. I won’t.

I can’t lose him.

I feel something very sharp and very thin inside me, cutting along my diaphragm. I forget to breathe. I forget my feet are on the floor.

And then a shadow moves across the door.

I land back on the laminate, in the hallway outside my brother’s office.

It’s Dexter. He’s done in the briefing room. Fucking finally.

Relief pushes everything else away, seals off whatever that was, like it never was. I reach for the door.


	63. Suspension

__

_Suspension  
_ _Setting: “Resistance is Futile”_

* * *

Fuck.

I drop my elbows onto my desk and press my fingers into my forehead, try to knead away the headache that’s started pulsing a tenth of an inch beneath my fingertips. It doesn’t accomplish anything, so, after a minute, I stop, open my eyes, and look back at my computer. The clock reads 4:09.

I need a break.

Exhaling, I grab my mug and walk over to the break area, glancing around as I go. Batista left his desk several minutes ago, heading in the direction of the bathroom. Masuka’s gone home, as have all the cops who aren’t on the task force. Dexter’s been sequestered in his office with the box of blood slides since I left him, door shut, blinds drawn, no one in or out. LaGuerta’s also in her office behind closed blinds. She retreated when Lundy’s guys started going through Doakes’ desk, after she was unable to stop them. None of us said or did anything when it was happening. I watched from my own desk, my feelings suspended in some internal bubble.

And Lundy’s gone. He left around midnight in the middle of his own federal retinue, going I don’t know where for I don’t know how long. It was the first and only glimpse of him I’ve gotten since this afternoon, and I didn’t have the chance to talk to him alone. It annoys me. I want to call him, but I know I can’t, and that annoys me too. Frankly, it fucking pisses me off that he didn’t tell me about Doakes. I don’t know how long he’s suspected him, but Doakes was here at the station on Wednesday, around me and my brother. I saw him. Anything could’ve happened. I can’t help but think that that was the reason Lundy called him in, because he was looking for something to hang him with.

But I don’t know, because he didn’t tell me anything, just like he still hasn’t told me anything about anything. And at this point I wish to fuck that if everyone’s going to act like I know everything because I’ve been licking Lundy’s balls, that I actually _did_ know everything.

I rinse out my mug and walk over to the coffee pot, where I find only dregs, so I wash that out too, then start another pot of cheap-ass Folgers. Locate some creamer in the fridge and stick it next to my mug. Lean against the counter as I wait. As my thoughts boomerang back to Doakes.

We’ve been playing catch up with the feds since we got the news, going over Doakes’ old cases, going over the Bay Harbor victims for the upteenth time. But mostly we’re just waiting for Dexter to come out and tell us about the blood samples and when we’re going to start getting DNA results. Like Batista, I’ve started looking through MP reports, going back over the names we flagged as possibles before we had our 18 IDed. It’s premature, but right now there isn’t much else to do. We’re all in suspended animation, waiting for the feds to tell us what they have and what they don’t, for the inevitable warrant on Doakes’ house, for his name to be released to the press. We’re stuck in the calm before the shit storm. None of us have discussed it, but I know I’m not the only one wondering how this is going to shake out, what Doakes is going to do when he’s cornered. Because I can’t see him coming in quietly. I can’t see him in cuffs. Honestly, I can’t see any of us doing the cuffing either.

It amazes me that Lundy hasn’t yanked the case from us, though, who knows, maybe that’s going to change when he gets back from his mystery trip.

I stick my hands in my pockets, glance toward LaGuerta’s office.

I wonder what she knows. I remember what she said after I found out Doakes attacked Dexter. He’s her friend, probably her best friend, and she’s almost certainly his best friend— probably his only real friend anymore. She has to know more than she’s saying. She has to have seen something, sensed something.

Unless she truly didn’t. But I knew Rudy Cooper barely a month and a week. She’s known Doakes forever, I think he told me since they were both still in uniform. From me, of all people, I don’t know how she didn’t know, never sensed something was off. But if she didn’t, I feel bad for her. I’ve never seen her look so upset than when those agents started taking apart Doakes’ desk. She almost seemed… human.

“Hey.”

I look over at Batista as he walks into the break area, realize I was zoning out. Also realize the headache is getting slightly worse.

“Hey,” I reply neutrally.

“Making coffee?” he asks.

I want to say something sarcastic, but I’m too tired to come up with anything, so I just say, “Yep.”

“I think I’ll have some too.” He grunts slightly as he reaches into a cabinet for a mug, then sets it down next to mine. The coffee machine started gurgling at some point, but it’s only dripped out about a cup so far.

I don’t say anything. I still feel annoyed at him about today, as petty and unimportant as it is, with what’s going on. I don’t know if he’s figured out what’s going on between Lundy and I, or if anyone has, but he’s been an ass with me today. Honestly, if he hasn’t figured it out, it almost makes it worse. I can’t believe he called me Lundy’s pet in front of our lieutenant. It was so disrespectful.

And it makes me wonder what he really thinks of me.

“This stuff with Doakes is so messed up,” he says, pulling a half-empty package of Keebler cookies that’s been sitting on the counter since midday yesterday toward him.

“Yeah,” I agree. I don’t really want to talk about Doakes.

“I still can’t get my head around it. I mean, I knew he was a little…” he makes a gesture at his head with a cookie, “but this…” He searches me for a second. “You think LaGuerta could be right?” He eats it.

I shrug. “I don’t see how. I can’t think of an innocent reason why he’d have a box of blood samples in his trunk.”

“But we won’t know for sure until the DNA comes in.”

I just look at him. “I can’t think of an innocent reason they’d be there,” I repeat. “He’s not a fucking biologist.” And besides, I don’t say, Lundy has more. He wouldn’t have searched his car and thrown this department into chaos without something substantive. I believe what I said this morning: he doesn’t blow smoke. He knew what it would mean to level this kind of accusation. Even if, somehow, Doakes is proven innocent, he’s as good as torched in the eyes of the brass, and, probably, in the eyes of all of south Florida.

“Yeah,” Batista says, “I can’t either.”

The coffee machine starts its dry, final gurgling. I pull out the pot and pour us both cups, then put it back, reach for the creamer. “Want any?” I ask as I pour some into mine.

“Yeah,” he says. “A lot.”

Nodding, I pour a lot. Put it down, swirl the cream around, and take a sip. Fucking crappy coffee, but still coffee.

“How’re you doing with all this?” he asks.

For a second I say nothing, stirring the stick a few more times before looking back up at him. “I don’t know. It’s just fucked.” I stop, but I realize as I look at him that even though I’m pissed at him, I still want to be honest with him. “And it makes me think of Brian Moser,” I add, a little too casually.

Something passes across his face at my having said the words. “I’m sorry,” he says, after a beat.

I shrug again. “We worked together.” I don’t want to say we were partners. “We all worked together. I don’t know what to say about it. He’s a fucking serial killer. It’s making me sick to think about.”

“Yeah, me too.” He’s exchanged the cookie package for his coffee. “I’m trying not to think about it. Truthfully, I’m hoping somehow Lundy’s got it wrong.”

He doesn’t, I don’t say. Instead drink more coffee. Refill my mug.

When I look up again I see that he’s looking at me like he wants to say something. “What?” I prompt.

“It’s just…” His expression is mildly sheepish. “What’s got you so convinced Doakes is guilty? What turned you against him in the course of a couple hours?”

“You mean him bouncing my brother’s face off a desk wasn’t enough?”

“Point taken.”

I set my coffee back on the counter. For some reason I feel compelled to continue. “You weren’t there that night when Dexter pulled me off that table,” I say. “Doakes crossed a line.”

“Yeah, I heard about it.”

“You heard about it.” He doesn’t get it. “You weren’t fucking sitting there a hair’s breath from being skewered having to listen to it. I could never forgive him for that, no matter how much I wanted to let it go.” Especially not now that I suspect what was really going on. “There’s something wrong with him, to have said that kind of shit about my brother, even if he believed it.” I pause. “Especially if he believed it.”

He doesn’t reply. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say.

But I do. Because I let the bubble pop, and now I’m angry. “And what the fuck, Angel?” I say, unable to stop myself. “I haven’t turned against the department. I’m not Lundy’s fucking lap dog. I was just as in the dark about what was going on as the rest of you were. In fact, I was the last to find out. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop acting like I’m his stooge.”

“I don’t think you’re his stooge.”

I glare at him, so not in the fucking mood. The headache’s gaining territory, gradually eating up the grey matter behind my eyeballs.

“Well,” he cracks, “you do follow him around a lot.”

The indignation overpowers the embarrassment. “I respect him. Besides, you see anyone else breaking this case?”

“Yes, actually.” He grins slightly. “You.”

I’m abruptly taken aback.

“Lenny Asher was your lead,” he continues. “Lundy may’ve had his suspicions, but you were the first one to find anything concrete, off a lead I hadn’t even considered looking into, that I honestly never would’ve looked into.”

Now I am embarrassed, and, despite myself, the anger’s draining away.

He pats my shoulder. “I’m sorry we’ve been giving you a hard time, Deb, but we can all see the quality of your work. It’s just talk.” He pauses. “Though you _do_ follow Lundy around a lot.”

I’m grinning slightly as I grimace at him. “Fuck off,” I say.

“Kind of like a puppy…”

“Get the fuck away from me.” I lightly shove his shoulder, and he steps away, still grinning, his coffee held to his chest. I feel stupid for having brought it up, but it is a relief for him to say all that.

Even if I’m still not sure if he’s figured out what’s going on between Lundy and I.

“You wanna go through more of Doakes’ cases together?” he asks. “I’m getting tired of going at it alone.”

I nod. “Yeah, sure.”

His grin is fading. “Hopefully we find something to exonerate him, you know?”

So is mine. “Yeah. Hopefully.” And even though I mean it, I don’t believe we will.

As I follow him back to his desk, coffee in tow, I glance again at Dex’s office. I can see his shadow moving against the blinds, and I feel a little relieved by it, just knowing he’s here, and not somewhere out of my reach. Nowhere Doakes can get to.

I rub the spot between my eyes where the headache originated.

And it occurs to me that it’s maybe even a little ironic that Dexter, the blood guy, is taking apart a box of blood slides. That Doakes’ apparent compulsion to take trophies is gonna be the thing that hangs him, and it’s gonna be Dexter’s work that cinches the noose.


	64. Press Release

__

_Press Release  
_ _Setting: “Resistance is Futile”_

* * *

“ _We begin this morning with breaking, shocking news on the Bay Harbor Butcher case: the FBI has identified a possible suspect for the serial killings, and a manhunt for his whereabouts has begun in earnest. Local 9’s Cynthia Watts is live at Miami Metro Police headquarters, with the latest on the search for the Bay Harbor Butcher. Cynthia?”_

“ _Well, Amy and David, there have been 18 positively-identified victims of the so-called Bay Harbor Butcher, victims who were later discovered to themselves be killers. They were found in bags several miles off the coast of Bay Harbor by treasure hunters in late February, sparking a federal investigation into their murders. The FBI is now saying that they believe they have finally identified a suspect in the killings: 45-year-old James Doakes, a former special operative in the United States Army Rangers and a decorated sergeant with the Miami Metro Police Department. A warrant has been issued for his arrest and a manhunt is now underway. Both the FBI and the police are seeking any and all information on the whereabouts of Sergeant Doakes, who was last seen Wednesday evening walking out these very doors. Special Agent Frank Lundy, who’s leading the investigation into the killings, had this to say:”_

The image cuts to the press room downstairs, which doesn’t have windows, so it isn’t obvious that this was recorded several hours ago. Lundy is standing at a podium center-screen, flanked by feds and a couple members of the brass, including Captain Matthews in his full dress uniform. LaGuerta’s absence is conspicuous.

We all heard her arguing with Matthews and Lundy this morning in her office, through her shut door and closed blinds, and even though we couldn’t parse the words, we knew exactly what they were saying. As their voices rose, everyone in the pen went quiet, until we were all still and silent, frozen awkwardly in our seats. When they finally came out she wasn’t with them. She hasn’t left her office since, and nobody’s gone anywhere near her door.

And now we’re sitting transfixed by the TV. We all knew the press release was coming, and we’ve been waiting for it.

I feel like fucking garbage as I watch Lundy talk.

“ _At this time I am not at liberty to discuss the details of the evidence we have obtained against Sergeant Doakes, except to say that it is compelling…”_

LaGuerta’s words to me this morning are still following me around. Her face was a mass of pain as she gripped my hand, as she begged me to help Doakes. But there was nothing I could’ve done to stop this. Despite what everyone thinks, I’m not Lundy’s foremost appendage. At best, I’m appendage adjacent. This press release was going to happen, and there’s nothing I could’ve said to Lundy to prevent it, even if I wanted to. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

Yet, I still feel like shit.

“… _the FBI fully intends to keep working with local law enforcement to take Sergeant Doakes in as quickly and as safely as possible. Captain Matthews has pledged…”_

Lundy and his feds finally came back early this morning, just after sunrise, to hold a briefing and bring us all up to speed. We now know that Doakes flew to Haiti after his interview on Wednesday, and that the FBI is coordinating with the Haitian government to find him. Right now they’re operating under the assumption that he’s still in Haiti, since his name hasn’t appeared on any returning flights, but Lundy’s concerned he’s found another way back into the country. We don’t know _why_ he went to Haiti, and we don’t know what kind of resources he might have there, former military or otherwise. There’s almost 700 miles of water between here and Port-au-Prince, and it’s very possible he could’ve traveled them by private plane or boat. If he didn’t decide to skip the continent altogether.

“ _I would like to stress that although the evidence against Sergeant Doakes is compelling, it is not conclusive. As of this moment, he’s wanted as a person of interest in this case…”_

Meanwhile, Lundy’s search warrant extended not just to Doakes’ car, but to his apartment, and now that his name’s been released to the press and they’re sure he won’t try coming home, the feds have started taking his place apart. It hasn’t been decided yet whether that evidence is going to come here or to the FBI lab, though Masuka’s prepping intake anyway.

The little twerp seemed so unaffected it was bordering on offensive…

Matthews voice floats between my thoughts. I momentarily refocus on the screen, see he’s replaced Lundy at the podium now.

“ _Mr. Doakes has been under the employ of the Miami Metro Police Department since 1991, after an eight-year stint with special forces…”_

A few hours ago, Dexter finally left, having spent the whole night shut up in his office working on the slides. They’re not ready for processing yet, so they’re still giving us nothing to go on. Pretty much everyone here is hoping that they won’t match our victims, that they’ll turn out to not even be human or something, but, if I’m honest with myself, I have little faith. I have a bad feeling about them. I think they’re exactly what we think they are.

“ _How can the public trust that Miami Metro will fully commit its resources to capturing one of its own?”_

Matthews is still on the podium. The question came from off camera.

“ _Obviously, all of us are shocked and horrified by the actions of Mr. Doakes, but I would like to take this time to assure the public that Miami Metro is fully committed to his apprehension. His status within the police department has only invigorated our search…”_

After recording the press briefing, Lundy took a couple of his agents to go talk to Doakes’ family, before his face hit the news. That’s the other thing I can’t stop thinking about. Because I met them, back in November or whenever it was. I had dinner with his family, shared a cheesecake with them, accidentally spilled half my plate down one of his sisters’ shirts. I almost asked to go with Lundy to tell them what was going on, but I was too much of a fucking coward. I couldn’t face them, and I feel ashamed of myself.

Because I didn’t even try to stop Lundy from going ahead with the press release…

Abruptly, I turn and walk back to my desk, try to tune out the TV. Half the department is still watching it, but I can’t anymore. I start rubbing my eyes, the bridge of my nose. The headache is back, and this time my brain’s making a concerted effort to break its way out of my skull. Like everyone else on the task force, I didn’t sleep last night, and at this point I’m running on caffeine fumes. My contacts are practically pasted to my eyes.

I open a drawer and start digging around for contact solution, having vague thoughts about LASIK.

“… _the second time in half a year that Miami Metro has had a serial killer working close to its ranks. I’m speaking, of course, of Brian Moser, the Ice Truck Killer, who was dating an officer in the very same department Sergeant Doakes worked from shortly before he abducted her.”_

I look up, and my gaze locks onto some reporter as I set the bottle on my desk. She’s short, blonde, wearing a pencil skirt and a plain blouse. Thin, rimless glasses. Ugly earrings.

I hate her instantly.

“ _Is it fair to say that Miami Metro has had a problem identifying murderers within their own ranks?”_

Matthews, for once, seems taken aback. I find I’m almost surprised he didn’t see a question like this coming.

“ _Yes, Brian Moser did have a personal relationship with one of our officers,”_ he says after the hitch, _“but that relationship was unrelated to the department. He was not a person of interest in the so-called Ice Truck Killer case until he abducted Officer Morgan. Although the timing is unfortunate, there is no connection between Brian Moser and the alleged actions of Mr. Doakes.”_

I can feel several sets of eyes on me, but I ignore them, instead looking at Lundy. His face is carefully neutral, hands buried in his pockets.

“ _But you can see how these two oversights might cause the public to lose faith in the judgment of your department?”_

“Hey, do you mind?” Batista says, over Matthews’ response. I look over at him as he grabs the remote from off Ramos’ desk and abruptly mutes the TV. “Fucking carrion crows,” he mutters.

I don’t say anything. I’m too tired to have any feelings about what just happened, beyond the new, dull realization that I’m probably gonna have to sneak out of the building when I finally leave.

It also occurs to me that now I can’t get up from my desk to go to the bathroom to use the solution coz it’ll look like I’m hiding from the TV.

Fucking great…

I reach into my desk for my purse to get a mirror, wondering how much I even care. It’s not like I didn’t already torch myself today. There’s not much I could do to make it worse.

“I thought Lundy’s press release was just going to say that Doakes was wanted for questioning,” Weiss says after a couple seconds pass in silence. His avoidance on the obvious commentary is so palpable it’d be funny if the situation wasn’t so fucked, and if I wasn’t directly at the center of it.

“That is what he said,” I point out, locating the mirror. I’m happy to skirt the subject.

“Yeah, looks like it’s Matthews who was quick to throw him under the bus,” Batista says. “‘Mr. Doakes,’” he scoffs quietly.

“As if for five fucking seconds that’ll make any—” I stop mid word as LaGuerta’s door opens. We all glance in her direction as she emerges, her face a mask. It’s immediately clear she just heard everything we did.

She doesn’t say anything as she adjusts her purse on her shoulder and walks out of the pen, in the direction of the back entrance, and neither do any of us. As she disappears around the corner, I wonder if she’s going up to see Matthews, or down to leave the station.

A beat passes, and then Batista walks after her. No one else moves. And in the silence her voice floats through my head again.

( _“Doakes is one of us. He deserves the benefit of the doubt.”_ )

Fucking hell…

I push it away, glance back up at the TV. Cynthia Watts with Local 9 is on the screen again, still a couple yards from our front entrance, talking into her microphone. Below her, the banner scrolls: SUSPECT NAMED IN BAY HARBOR BUTCHER CASE SUSPECT NAMED IN BAY HARBOR BUTCHER CASE SUSPECT NAMED. I have a thought that if I went out onto the balcony I might be able to hear what she’s saying.

I look down and check my watch. The clock reads 12:39. It’s been almost 14 hours since this shit started.

I wonder if Lundy is still talking to Doakes’ family. If they heard the press release too.

Feel another weird pang of guilt. Even though I couldn’t have done anything about it.

Exhaling, I drip some of the solution into my eyes, wipe away the damage to what remains of my liner with a napkin. Screw up my eyes against the stinging, against the headache.

I’m so fucking tired.


	65. 18 Hours Later

__

_18 Hours Later  
_ _Setting: “Resistance is Futile”_

* * *

“Where do you want it?”

“Just back here in the bedroom, wherever.” I step away from the door as the two delivery guys come in with my plastic-wrapped mattress, lead them down the hall to my bedroom. Stick my fingers in my pockets as I watch them negotiate it through the doorway.

“You want it against the wall?” The first guy asks. He’s got a Georgian drawl.

“No, you can put it on the floor. Just… over there.” I gesture vaguely toward the only space in the room it’s really gonna fit. I’m rapidly losing my powers of cogency. My thoughts are scattering like pool balls.

They shuffle the mattress over there and set it down gently, more gently than they really need to. Because it’s a mattress. “Is here good?” the same guy asks.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I don’t care. “Thanks.”

“No problem, ma’am.” He smiles politely at me. “You need help with anything else, while we’re here?”

Who said chivalry’s dead? “No. I’m good, thanks.”

They nod, and I flank them as we walk back to my door, digging in my pocket for the bill I stuck in there earlier. “Thanks for your help,” I say, handing the first guy the $10.

“You’re welcome, ma’am. You have a good day, now.”

“You too.”

We exchange more polite smiles, and then I shut the door, at which point whatever energy I had keeping me upright instantly evaporates. Fuck, I am so fucking tired.

I lock the door, puff out a breath, and go back toward my bedroom, where I peel the plastic off the mattress and plop onto it.

Fuck.

Fucking… something…

I lose track of whatever I almost thought about, close my eyes as I pull up my knee and unzip my boot, then do the same for the other, before promptly throwing both into the corner of the room. The socks follow. I don’t bother with anything else. I don’t care. I shift a little further up on the mattress, let my arms flop onto my stomach. As thoughts of work pass, indistinctly, through my head.

I didn’t leave the station until 3:47. I was the last to go home of the people who got called in last night. I stayed until I had to leave to deal with the bed being delivered. I knew that if I went home before then I’d end up curling up on the carpet or on a pile of linens or something and passing out, might have slept through the delivery. And that would’ve sucked.

Not that I just sat around with my thumb up my ass. I got a subpoena for Doakes’ phone records through, which I hope will come in before I do tomorrow. Got some other shit done. I don’t know. Truthfully, I was also hoping to see Lundy again. I know I’m going over to his place tonight— and so does the rest of the station now —but with all this shit going on I wanted to talk to him again for longer than five seconds. By 3:30 he hadn’t come in though, so I wrapped up and finally left. I tried calling him on the drive home, but he didn’t answer. Strike out.

My eyes hurt. I think about Doakes again, now that there’s nothing left to distract me, now that I’m just lying here. Snatches of old conversations; random, unconnected snippets. Mostly I remember a lot of sitting around in cars, working on paperwork together, a lot of not talking. Doakes isn’t much of a talker. And the same way I’ve done over and over with Rudy, I start trying to pinpoint everything I must’ve missed, quickly find myself getting sucked down a vortex as I try to remember if they ever met. If Doakes ever met Rudy. If they ever talked. I can’t put them together, but I know they must have. Rudy came to the station a couple times. I must’ve introduced them, but I can’t remember them ever talking. I can’t remember Doakes ever even asking about him. For that matter, I can’t remember Rudy ever showing any interesting in Doakes. He was always asking about me, digging for personal shit. Or about the ITK investigation. Sometimes he asked about Dexter. Not Doakes. Never Doakes.

I think.

It’s weird that he didn’t ask about him, if he knew who he was. Unless he didn’t know. Maybe they were secret pen pals. Maybe killing me would’ve been their first fucking… IRL meeting or something.

Maybe.

I’m drifting away. The harder I try to make order of my thoughts the faster they fall apart, in every direction. So I stop trying. Let myself sleep.

I’m out in seconds.

Until I’m not.

I dig my face into my arm, try to figure out what’s going on. I’m on my stomach. It’s not dark. Every part of me feels lead-lined, and I don’t know why I’m awake again.

And then I hear it: knocking. Someone’s at the door.

I consider ignoring it. I’m already getting sucked back under. But something compels me up— I don’t know what. I’m too tired to be curious. Without any particular desire or reason to do so, I slide off the mattress and trudge to my door, where I glance through the peep hole. Feel a flood of warmth. Because it’s Lundy, standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking off toward the courtyard.

Lundy…

Smiling, still feeling 90% asleep, I open the door. “Hey,” I say, airily.

He turns, but his own smile falls a bit as he looks at me. “I woke you up,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it,” I murmur. “I’m glad to see you.” I step out onto the warm concrete, into the muggy spring air, grab for his blazer, pinch the fabric between my fingers as I kiss him. I feel a little delirious, and a sudden, very acute awareness of the heat of him. Of the taste of him. Of the action of it, breath and tongues, rolling together. My bare feet on the concrete.

My whole body is already, instantly pulsing. I tug him backward, directing him through the door, but he pulls away when we get inside. I search him in confusion, too tired to think, or to interpret his expression. “What?” I ask.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m dead on my feet.”

“So am I,” I say. I’m still pulsing, hard. But I get the message.

I force my thoughts back into focus as I step away. Check my watch on impulse. 6:23. I was asleep almost an hour and a half. “So what’s up, if you’re not?” I ask.

He snorts. He looks fucking exhausted. “I thought you might want to have dinner together.”

I snort too. “I’m too tired to eat.”

“So am I.”

For a beat neither of us say anything. My thoughts are still in the gutter. I’m hot all over.

“You have anywhere to sit yet?” he asks.

“My bed got delivered,” I reply, because that really is the only thing I’ve got, and his brow lifts a hair. “Get your mind out of the gutter. Right now it’s the bed or the floor.” I can’t help smirking at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“The bed it is then.”

Nodding, still smirking slightly, I lead him back to my bedroom, where he pauses just after coming in. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” he says.

I glance around, at my boots thrown in the corner, the plastic blooming off my mattress at either end, the laundry basket filled with linens in the closet, all the random boxes all over the place. “Shut up,” I say, going to sit gracelessly on the mattress. He follows me, and within two seconds we’re both lying back, our sides touching. And even though I said I’d keep my hands to myself, I reach for his hand and squeeze it.

“You get any sleep?” I ask.

“Not a wink. You?”

“Barely.” I exhale. Slowly. “What a fucking shitpail of a day.”

“That about sums it up.”

I look at him. The arousal’s finally draining away, and my thoughts are dribbling back in its place. I find myself wishing they wouldn’t. “You talked to Doakes’ family?” I ask. Just forming the words is instantly sobering.

“Yes.”

I don’t need to ask how it went. It’s all over his face. “How are they?”

“Shaken.”

Stupid question. “They know anything?”

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately it seems that Sergeant Doakes doesn’t have a close relationship with his family. They couldn’t do much to fill in the details of his life.”

I glance away for a second. “You think they’re lying?”

He shrugs. “No.”

“I liked them. I only met them once, but… I liked them.” I don’t go any further with that, and then I can’t come up with anything to say, so for a beat I focus on manipulating his hand, interlocking our fingers. “You think Doakes really did these things?” I ask finally.

“So far that’s where the evidence is pointing,” he says.

I squint at him. “Is that another one of your non-answers?”

He hesitates, and something weird flickers across his expression as he looks at me. But before I can ask about it, he’s speaking again, “I don’t know Sergeant Doakes personally. If you’re asking for my judge of his character, I can’t give it to you. All I can do is follow the evidence.”

“That’s bullshit.” I don’t know why I’m arguing with him. “You’re an FBI profiler. You’re _the_ FBI profiler. You’ve had luncheons with serial killers. You have an opinion.”

“Okay, I have an opinion.” He doesn’t seem happy about my digging.

I don’t care. I’m too tired to care. “So what is it? It’s just you and me and the walls here.”

He hesitates again, and I don’t interrupt him. I want to know what he’s thinking, want him to fill in his thought bubbles. But as the seconds drag on, I start to wonder if he’s ever gonna answer me. “It might be Doakes,” he says, just as I’m about to prompt him. “He fits the profile.”

“But?” I ask. “What, do you have another suspect?”

“No.”

“Then but nothing. He had those slides in his car. He’s got to be guilty.”

Now he’s studying me. “You were his partner. You don’t have any doubts?”

I shrug. “The fuck do I know? Do I need to remind you I was _engaged_ to Brian Moser?” I exhale. “Besides, Doakes has a boatload of excessive force complaints and has slain two people in the line of duty since I transferred into Homicide. In October. Whatever he did in spec ops fucked him up and he’s obviously never moved past it.”

“Now you’re giving me a non answer.” I don’t say anything. “Do you believe he’s a murderer?”

I roll his hand back to point it at myself. “Me. Engaged. Serial killer.” Now it’s his turn to look at me silently, but I don’t want to give him a real answer. Of course I’m evading. I was his fucking partner for god’s sake. “No,” I admit finally. “I can’t imagine Doakes rolling people up like turkeys and sawing them into pieces. Up until all that shit with Dexter, I liked him. I liked working with him. But it doesn’t fucking mean anything.”

“It does mean something.”

I look into his eyes, and then away. “Not for me.”

And that’s that. We lapse into silence. I want to close my eyes and let the rest of this godawful day go, especially since he doesn’t want to do anything, but I don’t. I can’t seem to. I’m thinking about Doakes again. About Rudy. About all those body parts laid out on gurneys, the names on the boards, the 46 slides being “digested” in Dexter’s office, whatever the hell that means. Plastic wrap and duct tape. A surgical tray of knives, saws, and pliers. A pair of fucking kitchen tongs. For me.

( _“Call it an homage”_ )

“You don’t have a bed frame?”

Lundy’s voice rouses me. I don’t remember drifting off.

“Uh, it’s still in storage,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “I can’t fit it in my car.” I drop my hand and exhale. “Before all this I was planning to make Dexter and his van meet me at the storage unit so I could get it and the rest of my stuff here. Was planning on making him set it up for me too.” I pause. “Guess that’s a bust.”

“I could help you.”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. Besides,” I grin slightly at him, though I don’t really feel it, “until then I can sleep with you.”

He snorts. “Of course.”

I roll over and stick my head on his chest, feel his ribs expand and contract through his suit. “Speaking of that, when do you want to go, anyway?”

“Whenever we’re ready to get up.”

“Oh.” I’ve got his hand again. “You ready?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“Well, that settles it.” He shifts his free arm behind his head and rests back on it, sighs, closes his eyes.

I watch him for a second, tracing the creases and contours of his face, then shift a little further up his chest, prop myself up a bit so I can kiss him. Briefly. Dryly. But then he pulls me back down, and he lets me in, deep this time. Everything sort of melts away. Time. Doakes. The vague burning of my contacts. Fucking serial killers and body parts. As I push myself a little further onto him, into him.

“Still too tired?” I murmur when we stop, without opening my eyes. I’m too tired to open them anymore.

There’s a pause. A long one. “Yeah,” he says finally.

I nod as I lower myself back onto him. “Me too,” I say.

He grunts.

“Me too,” I repeat-mumble.

And then I’m out.


	66. Disconnected

__

_Disconnected  
_ _Setting: “There’s Something About Harry”_

* * *

I shut the door to LaGuerta’s office and walk away, her voice still ringing in my ears.

“ _You ever care about anyone, Morgan?”_

I pull out my chair and sit at my desk, tossing the phone records on top of some other random crap. What the fuck is wrong with me? I went in there to dress her down and she fucking tore my clothes off. Of course she doesn’t care about the risk, to herself or her career. She believes in Doakes. She trusts him. Somehow she can look at everything stacking up against him and still believe in him.

I turn on my computer, wait for it to boot.

But she’s the only one. No one else in the station has stood up for Doakes. No one has offered an alternate suspect or an explanation as to how those slides ended up in his car. LaGuerta’s hiding in her office convinced the task force is railroading Doakes, but right now there’s only one track to follow. He left his meeting with Lundy, flew to Haiti, somehow got back into the country, and evaporated. If he’s innocent, why hasn’t he turned himself in? Why go underground? He knows us. None of us are looking to crucify him. We’d all look for any evidence that could clear him. But instead he’s forcing us into a fox hunt.

He’s guilty. What the fuck else are we supposed to think? _Could_ we think? He hasn’t left us any choice, especially now that the DNA results from the slides have come back with matches to the Bay Harbor 18.

My computer’s finally awake. I log into it and check my email, but don’t find anything new. Big surprise, at barely 8:30 in the morning.

Frustrated, I lean back, glance at the phone records. Open the folder and skim them again.

Besides LaGuerta, Doakes really doesn’t seem to have anyone in his life. These go back a couple months, and it only amounts to a few pages. If he wasn’t talking to the lieutenant, he was pretty much only contacting people at the station, or ordering delivery. Almost every Monday I’ve got records for he’s got a call to a Chinese place called Shanghai Cafe.

I look at the name. Some weeks there were only a few other calls in between. Otherwise there were days and days of radio silence. No calls from a girlfriend, barely any names in here I don’t already recognize. A handful from his family. Hardly anything lasting over five minutes.

Despite myself and everything he’s done, I feel sorry for him. I didn’t realize this is what his life outside the station looked like. Then again, I never really thought about it.

And unfortunately it’s just another point weighing against him. He’s a lone wolf cliché, hits every mark in Lundy’s profile. Someone who spends as much time stewing alone as Doakes does, someone with military training and an obvious chip on their shoulder is exactly the type who’d become a vigilante. But even knowing the intimate details of his murders, of what he did to his victims, I don’t believe that Doakes is a sociopath. He must believe he’s righting wrongs by killing these people, or some other shit. I still remember how he was after we talked to Tucci, after we made notifications. He cared.

I let the pages fall back down.

At least, I think he cared. I certainly felt it at the time.

“Morning.”

I look up to see Batista walking by my desk. “Morning,” I say. He’s eating some greasy pastry thing. It smells like pork and eggs. For whatever reason, I get up and follow him, sit against the edge of Ramos’ desk.

“Anything new?” he asks as he sets down his pastry bag and reaches into his inbox.

“The first batch of DNA results came in,” I say. He looks up at me, and I answer before he can ask, “All 18 of our victims were in that box.”

“Shit.” He looks between me and the folder he’s sliding from the tray. “I guess that’s what I’m holding,” he says after a beat.

I glance at it. “Yeah.”

He opens it, and neither of us talk as he flips through it. I can see the weight of it settling over him. We all knew what the slides meant the second they surfaced, but it’s another thing to have it confirmed. There’s no doubt now that they are exactly what we thought they were.

“We know anything about these new victims?” he asks eventually.

I shrug. “All I’ve seen is what you’re seeing.”

He sighs and leans back, checks his watch. “Lundy here?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Check the briefing room.”

Nodding, he pushes to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

I nod too, watch him as he leaves the pen. From here I can’t tell if Lundy’s sitting at his desk still, which was where he was when I left to go talk to LaGuerta, but for once I don’t feel compelled to look for him. What he said earlier is still bothering me. A lot. Maybe more than it should. Or maybe not. It was just how casually he said it, that he won’t be around when this case is over, like not only is it inevitable but it doesn’t really matter to him.

The stupid thing is, up until he said that, I hadn’t thought about it. Somehow it’s never occurred to me what’s gonna happen to us when we finally catch the Butcher. All that’s mattered to me is being with him. I haven’t thought much beyond the day to day.

But now that I am thinking about it, I don’t know where to go. He lives in DC, chases serial killers across the country. It’s not like he’d stay here. He’s known me for three seconds. I can’t _ask_ him to stay. But what then? He leaves? We do the distance thing?

We don’t? We just… end?

I drift back to my desk, pick up the phone records again and look at them blindly, but for the first time since all this shit happened, I can’t think about Doakes. The fact that Lundy’s going to leave scares the crap out of me, makes me feel like I’m slowly getting torn in half.

But it’s stupid. I’m so fucking stupid. Why didn’t I think about this? And why doesn’t it seem to bother him? Doesn’t he care? Or is this just a fling to him?

Could I ever mean an ounce as much to him as his wife did? How could I expect to? He had a whole life with her— a family, a child, probably a dog or something, a boat and a house in the burbs. Am I anything compared to that? Could I ever be?

Fuck but I _want_ to be.

“Lundy wants me to pull all their jackets,” Batista’s voice penetrates my thoughts. I look up to see him standing next to my desk. “Want to join me?”

I blink, pull myself together. “Yeah, sure,” I say, getting up. I’m still holding the folder.

“What’s that?” He nods at it.

“Doakes’ phone records.” I hold it out for him, and he takes it, skims it as we walk back to his desk.

“Guess he didn’t have many callers,” he says after he takes his seat.

“Guess not.” I sit next to him. “But his last phone call wasn’t made internationally, so at least we know he’s back in the country now.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, “That call,” he says, “this was after we launched the manhunt. He called LaGuerta?”

“Yep. And she neglected to mention it.”

“I honestly can’t say I’m surprised, but…” He trails off. “Lundy talk to her yet?”

I shake my head. “I did.”

“You did?” He looks surprised.

I nod.

“What’d she say?”

“That he didn’t tell her anything, and she doesn’t think he’ll call her again. That she believes in Doakes. That the task force is railroading him.” That I’m fucking heartless. The subtext to her tone still stings a little.

He looks between me and the phone records. “You believe her?”

I shrug. “She’s just trying to save him.”

_You ever care about anyone, Morgan?_

“I don’t blame her.” He sets the folder on his desk and rubs his face. “Still can’t believe we’re talking about Doakes,” he says, glancing toward the sergeant’s desk.

I glance at it too before looking back at him. “I can’t either,” I agree, not sure I really do.

With a sigh, he reaches forward and grabs the DNA results again, which he slowly flips open. “Rick Cross,” he reads after a beat, then looks up at his computer. “Let’s find out what you did.”

I scoot the chair closer as he types the name into the criminal database. Within a minute we’re looking at his rap sheet: mostly sporadic DV incidents before a vehicular manslaughter charge he served 15 years for. The victim was his wife. It kind of surprises me that with all his recorded history of abuse he was only charged with a second-degree felony. It makes me wonder if that’s why Doakes went after him, or if it was something else entirely that put him on his radar, especially since Cross was charged up in Jacksonville.

I study his face: the wrinkles in his leathery skin; his shitty, close-cropped haircut; his nicotine-stained teeth. He looks like some guy you’d see in the background of a bar or smoking at a bus stop. I imagine Doakes drugging him and laying him out on a table, slapping duct tape over his mouth before wrapping him in plastic. Over and over, around the table, around his limbs, around his chest, around his forehead. Over and over, until he can’t move an inch. I imagine him waking up in the dark, confused, then terrified. Imagine Doakes pressing a combat knife into his cheek, wonder if that’s when he takes his blood, maybe off the tip of the knife. Imagine him cutting his throat as he screams into the tape. The blood welling up into the plastic, dripping down, down.

Onto a blue mat.

My mouth goes dry.

“Looks like another piece of shit,” I say to Batista, before those images can get any worse.

“Doakes has been nothing if not consistent,” he mutters, sending the sheet to the printer.

“He was released in ‘01,” I read, tightening the internal suppression. “I’m curious how he ended up dead in Miami.”

“Yeah, me too.” He minimizes and gets onto NCIC, where we find his most recent address was registered in April 2004 to a street that I think is in or near Park West, here in Miami.

“Wonder if anyone even noticed he was gone,” I say as we’re both looking at his DMV pic, which isn’t much better than his mug shot.

He glances at me. “Me too,” he says again.

And then we’re on to another database, but we don’t find an MP report, either from here or up in Jax. If anyone cared that he disappeared, we’re not seeing a police record of it.

And, despite myself, I see him lying on that table again, aspirating blood, eyes lolling. Imagine Doakes sawing through the plastic into his outspread forearm, casually removing it and dropping it into a Hefty bag before moving up his arm, starting to cut into his shoulder. As Rick Cross finally expires, his head still pinned to the table, his mouth still taped shut, that long cut on his cheek still dribbling blood.

Down onto a blue mat.

I exhale, tuck my hair behind my ears. “I’ll go get some folders,” I tell Batista, standing up.

“Thanks,” he says. “While you’re over there, could you grab another box of staples too?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

“Thanks.”

I walk away from him, trying and mostly failing to force my thoughts in other directions. Instead I find myself, impulsively, trying to catch sight of Lundy through the window, but I still can’t see him from this angle. It takes a second before I realize what I’m doing, how fucking stupid I am. Because I can’t count on him to help me. And I shouldn’t need him to anyway.

So I stop looking for him.

Instead go to get the folders. And some fucking staples.


	67. Coming Down

__

_Coming Down  
_ _Setting: “There’s Something About Harry”_

* * *

The water’s finally scalding hot. I’ve been standing here naked and waiting for at least a minute now, fully conscious of the fact that once again I forgot to buy a bathroom rug when I was at Home Depot earlier, but I put it out of my mind as I step over the tub and into the water. Hiss as my skin sears.

_Fuck, that’s hot._

I let the water wash through my scalp, rinse away the sweat and sea salt. I can taste it as it runs down my face.

The run from here to somewhere around Mid Beach and back was about an hour and a half. From the look of the clouds as I rushed back to my apartment, I probably just beat the incoming storm. The effort of running through the humidity took me away from myself. From how pissed off I am.

From fucking Dexter.

Fucking Lundy.

I pour body wash into the loofah, start scrubbing the sand and the sweat off. I’m already getting pissed again.

I can’t believe that fuckwit called off his detail. I can’t believe Lundy _let_ him call it off. I can’t believe he’s so blasé about it. Doakes hates his guts, and at this point he’s got nothing to lose. What’s stopping him from going after Dexter? I almost went over to his place after I got off work, since he left before me— without telling me —but I knew it’d be pointless. He wouldn’t let me in the door if I did show up. He’d just tell me again about how practical serial killers are and send me on my way. That’s basically what he repeated when I called him before my run.

I wash off the soap.

Who knows. Maybe he’s right. It’s hard to see Doakes risking everything for a grudge. But then again none of us saw him as a serial killer before a couple days ago, so what the hell do we know? It just pisses me off Dexter made that decision without even consulting me. I had to overhear it from some of the feds chatting in the hallway. And it pisses me off that Lundy didn’t think to give me the heads up. What, do they think they exist in a vacuum? Do they think this shit doesn’t affect me? Not that it matters, since my feelings about it clearly don’t change anything.

My skin’s bright pink, but I’m getting used to the heat. I turn it up a little more, start lathering my hair.

For a second I try to go back to that pleasant buzz of non-thoughts I had while I was running, but I can’t hold onto the feeling for long. I’m back on Doakes, Dexter, and Lundy before I’ve even gotten the shampoo out of my hair.

Lundy. I can’t stand how hurt I feel, how fucking dumb I am. I still don’t know why I never thought about what would happen to us when the case ended, why we’ve never talked about it, but now it’s all I’ve been thinking about, in between and around all this stuff with the Butcher and my brother. It’s finally sinking in that he’s going to leave, and, with the momentum this case is building, he’s probably going to be leaving soon. Within weeks soon, maybe even less. And, short of tying him to a chair, there’s nothing I can do to stop him. He’s going to go, and he’s going to take a piece of me with him.

Because it scares me to imagine him going and leaving me alone. I’ve found a path back to myself; I’m recovered; I’m _fine._ But, even saying that, I spent over twenty minutes this morning orbiting a black hole as I imagined Doakes sawing Rick Cross into pieces. As I felt every finite detail. As I zoned out in the bathroom while I was reapplying some liner.

Speaking of which.

I wash out the conditioner, kill the water, pause for a fraction of a second as I reach for the curtain, feeling the tiniest pinprick of fear. Because I’m fucking thinking about Rick Cross again. About Doakes. About Moser. About how it felt that night, being alone and scared in that top-floor hospital room, and about how it felt almost every night for two months afterward in Dexter’s apartment, trying to sleep. The reason I was so afraid to be alone again. The reason I had to move in with him to begin with.

But Brian Moser is dead. He killed himself. And Doakes isn’t after me.

And I’m not fucking afraid of him anyway.

I yank open the curtain, grab the towel off the rack, and dry myself off in the tub before stepping out to grab the PJs I left on the counter earlier. Towel off my hair and put them on. Wander out to the kitchen and open my barren fridge. I haven’t gotten around to shopping for food yet. I don’t even have beer. This shit with Doakes dropped right in the middle of my move and I only have like a quarter of an apartment right now. Besides, I’ve been spending most of my nights with Lundy since I got this place, and he always makes sure we eat. I haven’t even had to think about it.

For a second I think about calling him, but then all the hurt and the confusion and everything else comes rushing up to stop me. I don’t know what I’d say to him if I did call him. I don’t know that he could say anything to fix this. To fix me.

Frustrated, I grab my purse and dig through it, eventually come up with a smashed granola bar. I think about eating it. I almost eat it. Then I remind myself I’m two minutes from Publix and this is pathetic.

So even though I can hear that it’s definitely started pouring, I head for my bedroom and change again. Jeans. Bra. Shirt. Boots. Slicker. As I’m changing I listen to the thunder and question my decision making, but I’m already committed to getting something to eat. I’m too fucking hungry for granola.

And I desperately need beer.

_Desperately._

Back out of the bedroom and into the bathroom to comb my still-wet hair, and out again. Purse. Keys. Wallet. Phone. I pause at my counter, squeezing my phone in my palm. But I don’t grab my gun. I leave it there, out of sight of the window, before heading out the door and into the downpour. Cursing, already half drenched, I jog to my car, escape inside it.

The whole drive I’m oscillating again. Doakes, Dexter, Lundy. As the wipers thump in second intervals.

We need to find something concrete on Doakes. Right now all we’ve got is the slides, but we didn’t even find his prints anywhere on them or the box. Everything else is circumstantial and only broadly implicates somebody in the department. They apparently didn’t find anything in his apartment, though they’re bringing in a bunch of shit tomorrow, so who knows if they missed something. Meanwhile, every cop in the task force is digging into our new victims looking for something to tie him to them while the feds continue the manhunt. Considering in all this time with the 18 we already had the best we found was Lenny Asher, none of us have much hope, though I think most of us aren’t going after him with much enthusiasm. Nobody’s rushing to defend Doakes, but no one’s eager to crucify him either, despite what LaGuerta seems to think.

But I do want him brought in, as soon as possible. I believe he’s the Butcher, and, despite Dexter’s brush off, I know he’s dangerous. Maybe he won’t go after him or anyone else out of a grudge, but it concerns me that he’s back in the country, and I suspect he’s in the state. What I don’t know is why he’d come back at all. With his training, he probably could’ve slipped into the shadows in Haiti and disappeared forever. Instead he came back, and he called LaGuerta. Surely he’d know we’d dump his records and see that call. What, does he want us to know he’s here? Why? What is he up to?

Dexter says serial killers are practical, but I don’t fucking buy it. I still can’t figure out why Moser did what he did, why he didn’t just murder me outright, why he did half the shit he did to me and his other victims. Doakes has to be planning something in coming back to Florida. He’s not going into hiding in some non-extradition country and he’s not turning himself in, so what then? The feds will corner him eventually. I can’t imagine him turning a gun on them or on any of us, but I’m not gonna put it past him.

Whatever happens, I want him brought in alive. I want a chance to talk to him, alone. I want to ask him about Brian Moser, if he knew who Rudy really was when he came to the station. I want to ask if he fed me to him. I want to know if the reason I was left on that table for so long was because Moser was waiting for him to get there, so they could kill me together.

I want to ask him point blank, alone and without the microphone recording. I want him to tell me to my face that he was involved. That he knew what was going to happen to me.

And I want to ask him why. So I can finally have a fucking answer.

I pull into and through the parking lot next to the Publix, head straight for the covered parking, where there are only a few other cars. Take a space a couple yards from the entrance. After I turn off the car and stop the wipers, I sit back in my seat for a second, thinking about having a cigarette. I resist the urge, remind myself about the run, about not needing to suck tar, about the fact that it’s 2007 and nobody smokes anymore.

I almost give in. Don’t. Puff out an agitated breath.

Dexter, Lundy, Doakes.

Any moment could be the moment Doakes surfaces. I doubt we’ll get anything off the tip line. Someone like him wouldn’t be caught by some random window gawker. But who fucking knows. After all, it was Lenny Asher that got us to him.

And once he’s caught, once it’s done, Lundy’s going to go, back to DC or to some other state to chase some other serial killer. He’s going to move on with his life, and I’m going to have to move on with mine. Unless I don’t. Some insane yet not insignificant part of me wants to follow him, screw everything else. Because I’m fucking insane. Because I don’t want whatever we have to go away, for us to be trying to keep the connection through some god awful phone line. I’m not ready for him to go.

But that’s assuming he feels the same way, that he’d even want to. That’s assuming this means anything to him. What he said this morning still hurts.

I click off my seat belt.

And Dexter.

I push my hair back, slowly take my keys out of the ignition.

I still wish that idiot had a fucking detail on him.


	68. A Waste

__

_A Waste  
_ _Setting: “There’s Something About Harry”_

* * *

“This the last of it?”

He shakes his head. “There’s still some more workout equipment coming.”

And why do we need that stuff? I want to ask, but don’t. Instead I nod, adjust the clipboard in my grip.

The FBI tech nods back, then turns and walks out of the room, leaving me alone in here again. Surrounded by Doakes’ shit. More and more, it’s seeming like the feds took his entire apartment, not that that really means much.

Exhaling, I walk over to the pictures they took of his studio before they started packing it up, trace the bare walls and sparse decor, the blueprints someone mocked up. Doakes lived in a place the size of a tuna can over on Lexington, not too far from the station. Aside from a handful of knickknacks and some keepsakes, he didn’t do much to personalize, even though our records show he’s been living there almost six years.

And now it’s all here: a model boat, a preserved fish head, several bottles of hot sauce, high school football trophies, three registered firearms, a crossbow, everything in his medicine cabinet, a handful of framed pictures, his kitchen knives. Almost his entire life fits within this room.

I look at the picture they took of the inside of his fridge. Inside was a pickle jar and a container of a single, pre-cooked, de-shelled, hardboiled egg. His freezer had a couple frozen ready meals. As far as I know, the FBI didn’t take them.

I glance around the room again, then walk over to the west wall and start pulling down bags, recording descriptions and evidence numbers.

What we haven’t found is conspicuous in their absence— no butchering tools, blank slides, plastic wrap, any evidence that Doakes even has a boat. No M-99. No anything. I remember walking through evidence storage the day they found Moser hanging in his murder rack, the sheer volume of shit he’d kept hidden in his place. It was overwhelming how much had been there, barely out of my sight, how much I would’ve found if I’d simply opened a door. With Doakes there’s jackshit. That’s why the feds took everything.

But I agree with what one of the agents proposed in this morning’s briefing, that we can take everything, tear out the walls and the ceiling and the fucking floorboards, but we’re not gonna find anything. Doakes has somewhere else he’s keeping everything. Someone as meticulous as the Butcher wouldn’t keep his stuff at home. Moser was a cocky, arrogant son of a shitstain, and sometimes I think he must not have really cared if I had stumbled onto his freezer or any of his trophies, but Doakes has murdered almost 50 people in the past decade, that we know about. He’s been careful to stay below radar, and he knew we were closing in on him. We won’t find anything, and this is a waste of time.

But a waste of time I volunteered for. It’s keeping me in this room.

Far, far away from Lundy.

The sound of wheels on laminate attracts my attention, and I look left to see the tech coming back, this time with Masuka in tow. The fed tech’s bringing in a training dummy, while our tech is carting a tall pile of boxes in front of him. He and Dexter were going over Doakes’ clothes for trace yesterday, but they reported this morning that they didn’t find anything on them. Big surprise.

“One more thing,” says the tech, who never told me his name, as he stops his dolly next to the door and unstraps the dummy.

“Need any help with that?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’ve got it.” With a grunt, he half lifts, half drags the thing off the dolly and shoves it next to the shelves. And then he’s out of the room again.

Masuka passes him as he walks in and heads to the shelves on the east side of the room. “Hey, Morgan,” he says.

“Hey,” I say, bracing for some inevitable Masuka-ism. But he doesn’t say anything else as he starts putting the boxes on the shelves. Relaxing slightly, I go back to cataloging the stuff on the west wall.

Which was my mistake, because suddenly he’s at my elbow, an inch too far inside my personal bubble, as he, presumably, looks at what I’m doing. “Yes?” I ask when he doesn’t speak, looking up from my clipboard.

“What’s up with you and Lundy?” he asks.

I step away from him, annoyed by his closeness, and by his question. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“Come on, you could’ve cut the tension in the briefing this morning with a butter knife. You two having a lover’s spat?”

Christ, he’s more gossipy than the hoes I was palling around with back in Vice. “Remind me how our business is your business?” I say.

“Everything is my business, Morgan.” He gestures around himself, then grins at me expectantly. Like he really thinks I’m gonna tell him anything.

I look into his bug eyes, resisting the impulse to snatch his glasses off his face and lob them into the hallway. “If you’re done in here, would you kindly get the fuck out?”

His smile doesn’t fall, but he does meander around me with his dolly, only to stop at the doorway.

“What?” I ask, pulling another bag off a shelf. This one contains a bunch of resistance bands.

“You think we’re gonna find anything?” he says.

I look at the assigned number. “In here? No.”

“You think we’re gonna find him?”

When I look at Masuka I find his expression has finally sobered. “Yeah, eventually,” I say.

“And then what? We interrogate him here? We hand him over to the feds? He pleads out to avoid the death penalty?”

“If he’s smart.” I’m still holding the baggy.

“Will you testify against him?”

I pause. That I hadn’t really thought about. “I don’t know,” I say after a beat. “Yeah,” I revise, “if it comes to it. What, you won’t?”

“Even if I didn’t want to, it’s not like we have a choice.” He pushes his glasses back. “How are all of us not losing our jobs over this?”

“It’s not like the city has the personnel to replace our entire division,” I reply, not entirely sarcastically. So he’s been watching the news too.

“That’s comforting.”

I shrug. “Glad I could help.”

He looks at me a second longer, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just heads out of the room, pulling his cart behind him. When he’s gone, I finish logging the resistance bands, stick them back on the shelf, and grab something else, resume scribbling.

Masuka’s concern isn’t entirely unjustified. Since the manhunt’s already all but stalled out, reporters have been taking advantage of the Sunshine Law to dig into Doakes and the Bay Harbor investigation as deep as they can. Every news outlet is clogged with questions about his history of excessive force and righteous shootings, about him being on suspension shortly before he disappeared, about why he was able to walk freely out of Miami Metro barely a day before he was named our prime suspect. We’re all just glad they don’t know that he called LaGuerta after we put out the BOLO. Then the department may very well have been incinerated. As it is, Matthews is trying his best to douse himself in fire retardant.

But Masuka doesn’t have anything to worry about. If Matthews is throwing anyone into the pyre, it’s LaGuerta. I think the only reason she’s even still here is because if he suspended her it would only draw more attention to her relationship with the Butcher. Besides, even he’s not that heartless.

( _You ever care about anyone, Morgan?_ )

I exchange more baggies, organizing the shit as I go. Eventually the FBI tech reappears, drops off more stuff in paper bags. I don’t ask what they are. I’ll find out soon enough.

And then he leaves. My thoughts drift.

This morning’s briefing. The slides finished processing last night. Five of them matched killers in the criminal database, three had no criminal records but were IDed as former military, three more were linked to phantom samples left at homicide scenes. That gives us 38 names and eight Does. Every cop on the task force is looking into them, checking to see if they’ve all disappeared, if we can use these slides as proof of death. That was my day yesterday and half my day today before I volunteered to do the cataloging. I’ve been assigned Harry Costes and Jamie Jerworski. So far I can’t find any evidence that either of them are alive, or, frankly, that anyone gives much of a shit whether or not they are. Costes’ family barely showed any interest when I called them. He’s been missing since 1998.

Meanwhile the FBI are running the manhunt. Nothing useful has come in off the tip lines. We still don’t have the slightest idea how Doakes got back into the country, or if he truly has. Some of the feds are now floating the theory that he may’ve somehow rerouted his call to LaGuerta to make it appear like it was made domestically to keep us chasing our tails, and it’s not an unattractive theory. There hasn’t been a single confirmed sighting of Doakes in the country since his flight out of Opa-locka, and, as far as we know, no one’s heard from him either. His family agreed to let the feds bug their phone lines, but so far zilcho. Apparently the last time his mother heard from him was two weeks ago.

I log and organize a bunch of football and shooting trophies, unsure why they were collected, why I’m even looking at them.

I feel sorry for his mother. I keep thinking about us eating cheesecake, that night after we found Valerie Castillo laid out in that filthy fucking Airstream. Doakes’ gift to the Ice Truck Killer. Was that what he was thinking about while I was telling cop stories to his sisters?

I move down the shelves. Fill up another page. Drink the rest of the water bottle I forgot I brought in here, go throw it out in the hallway. Come back and continue logging. Everything is so mundane. Kitchen crap. Shot glasses. A beer boot from Poggy’s Tavern over in Houston, Texas.

I remember talking to Doakes last month, after he shot and killed that guy, Barnes I think his name was. Curtis Barnes. I asked him how it felt to kill him, and he said it didn’t feel like anything. That was all he said, but he knew why I was asking. He knew _what_ I was asking, even if I couldn’t admit it to myself.

He once told me he’d seen evil, real emptiness. That was before I knew what he was talking about. Before I’d seen it for myself. Before it swallowed me up and shit me out the other side.

In that moment I realized there’s something invisible between us, buried twenty feet under the surface, below the pieces of myself I duct taped back together. Something I wanted him to affirm, because I knew he saw straight through me, even if I couldn’t quite name what it was.

Because I know Doakes isn’t empty, the way Moser was. For as much as he’s a killer, for as much as his apartment was less a home than a live-in gym, for as much as he was a fucking liar, for as much as he probably set me up to die, I know there’s more to him. I believe when he killed Barnes it was a righteous shooting, and I believe he feels the same way about all 46 of the fucks he left immortalized in that box.

All the same, we’re going to find him, and this is going to end. Whether it’s us or the feds, we’re going to drag him in.

And with any luck he’ll plead out. Because the truth is, I don’t want to testify against him, don’t want to come back to this in however many months when he’s finally got a court date and have to dredge all this up, have to see him sitting there in cuffs and an orange jumpsuit. Have to go through every fucking detail.

And I don’t want to see him get sentenced to die. Don’t want to have to be a part of it.


	69. Through the Swamp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk— a lot of this shit doesn’t make sense. If you don’t care about plot holes, feel free to skip this text wall.
> 
> So, to start with, I don’t know why Doakes didn’t return through Opa-locka when he came back Stateside. He effectively abandoned his car at the airport, but this was before he knew that he’d become a suspect of the Bay Harbor murders, so I don’t know why he did this, but as a result he avoided Lundy’s guys, who were almost certainly sitting on the car. Instead he clearly reentered the country somewhere else, likely through Leonis, and rented a car for reasons unknown. What’s odd is that the footage of Doakes at the rest stop was taken from a security camera southeast of Naples near the Everglades. This means he probably reentered through the west side of Florida… for some reason, and rented the car there. Even though the slides were in his car in Miami. Even though, again, at the time he wasn’t wanted. All I can think is that he may also have had a GPS tap on Dexter’s car and saw that he was in Naples the night he found the slides and decided to go there to see if something happened. That would also explain how Doakes found his way to the cabin from the GPS he had an Dexter’s boat (coz otherwise I can’t figure out how he mapped that route into the swamp on 2007 tech).
> 
> My shitty napkin math indicates Dexter’s trip from his marina to the Everglades might optimistically have taken about six hours each way. The footage of Doakes they find at the rest stop only makes sense if he followed the GPS on Dexter’s boat, down from Naples and into the Everglades— which makes sense with the 16:33 time stamp.
> 
> (While I’m griping, how could Juan Alonso have just… owned a cabin in the middle of the Everglades? It’s a national park. Whatever. Unimportant.)
> 
> Normally I just let Dexter’s stuff run in the background because I don’t honestly care unless it effects Deb, but this always struck me as strange so I wanted to bring it up, especially since this is something she never would’ve been able to explain and I wanted to explain it.
> 
> There’s also some stuff specifically about Doakes’ car, but I’ll address that later in other notes.
> 
> tl;dr: Doakes reentered the country in Naples. I don’t know why. Deb doesn’t know why. Nobody knows why. I’m making something up.

__

_Through the Swamp  
_ _Setting: “There’s Something About Harry”_

* * *

We found him.

I lean back in the threadbare, cheap-ass, fold-out chair and look up at Lundy. He’s staring at the screen mutely, his hands deep in his pockets.

“We found him,” I say quietly. Redundantly.

“So we did,” he says, his tone as unreadable as his expression. I glance away, my gaze already drawn back to the CRT TV. I’m still holding the remote.

Doakes is frozen on the screen, his hand on the side of his rental car as he pumps gas. And it’s just… Doakes. No horns sprouting off the sides of his head, no chainsaw visible in the rear window, no blood-spattered clothes, no sticker on the front of his shirt reading ‘I’m a serial killer, ask me how.’ He looks like his usual, mustachioed, surly self.

I feel an abrupt wave of cognitive dissonance. I forget why we’re looking at Doakes, why we’re two hours west of Miami in a Mobil station out in bumblefuck that smells like end-of-day armpits. For a second, I’m just looking at a still of Doakes from a security feed, and it doesn’t make any sense.

Doakes, who was my partner. And maybe, at one point, my friend.

I float in it for a couple seconds, vaguely confused.

Then it goes away.

I turn the remote around in my hands.

Lundy and I were sitting down for lunch this afternoon, at some cafe he’d scouted out on Mid Beach, and were about 90% through an emotional resolution when his phone rang. A clerk at a car rental place in Naples had called in a tip on Doakes. One of Lundy’s feds had already started running the lead when he called us.

We skipped lunch. By 3:30 we were sitting in the manager’s office of a Lariat Rent-a-Car just outside the Naples airport, looking at a scan of Doakes’ fake driver’s license as a bald, sweaty, 30-something clerk sat opposite us and told us about his encounter with the Butcher.

Doakes used the William Glass ID to rent the car and a pre-paid card to pay for it. The car was due back at the agency yesterday, and the clerk recognized Doakes’ face from the news when he pulled the paperwork to contact him. He went pale as he admitted to us that it took him a day to call the tip line. His fear as he stared nervously between us might’ve been funny if it hadn’t been Doakes’ face on the slip of paper in Lundy’s hand.

Lundy thanked him for reaching out to us, then asked if there was GPS on the car. The clerk said yes and hurried away to get it activated. For awhile, as we sat there in that room, I wondered if we were about to find Doakes; if, somehow, this chase could end up being so straightforward. But then the clerk came back and told us there was something wrong with the GPS unit. That he was really sorry, but the unit seemed to be faulty or may, possibly, have been disabled.

Which, honestly— not a fucking surprise.

Having struck out, we thanked him again, then went back to our car, where Lundy called the field office about the pre-paid card, got someone to issue a warrant for the bank it came from. We finally got something to eat as we waited for it, at some tiny, radioactively yellow house near the airport that had at some point been converted into a taqueria. After several hours of sitting around, the warrant finally came through, and we had another charge to follow up on at a Mobil station about ten minutes southeast of Naples.

And now we’re here, behind the counter of the gas station, looking at Doakes on a security cam. The footage was taken three days ago. The time stamp reads 16:33.

If he was heading east on 41, there are only two places he was likely heading: Miami, or the Everglades.

I tap the side of the remote, set it next to me on the counter.

My bet is on the fucking swamp…

“I’ll go find the clerk,” I say as I swivel around and get up.

Lundy nods. He’s still staring silently at the screen as I move past him and head for the guy, RJ Westcott, who I can see restocking beer at the other end of the station. All his movements are unnaturally slow. I wonder if he’s been trying to eavesdrop on us.

“Hey,” I say to him as I approach.

He looks back at me in a way that tells me he definitely was. Like the guy at Lariat, he’s been treating us both like space aliens since Lundy flashed his badge.

“Anything I can help you with?” he asks. Casually.

“Yes,” I say. “Could you make a copy of the security tape for us?”

For a second, he just looks at me awkwardly. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says. “We, uh, don’t have two VCRs.”

Great. “Could we take the tape with us then?” I ask.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

I turn to go, but the clerk stops me. “Does that, uh—” he interrupts himself, “you found what you were looking for?”

I glance back at him, considering my answer. It’s not like us taking the tape isn’t proof positive that we did. “Yes, we did,” I say.

He seems somewhat enthralled by that. “Awesome,” he says.

I bob my head, mostly agreeing with him. “Yeah, I guess it is,” I say. And then I walk back to Lundy, who hasn’t moved from where I left him. His expression is weirdly somber for having just got confirmation that not only is Doakes back in Florida, but we have a general idea of where he might be hiding.

“Hey,” I say, deciding not to comment about it here. He looks around at me. “He can’t make a copy, but we can take the tape.”

He nods. “Good,” he says, then reaches forward and ejects the VHS. After straightening, he looks around the gas station for a couple beats. He takes so long to speak again that I want to ask him what’s up.

“You want anything?” he says as I open my mouth.

My lips are still parted as I look at him. It occurs to me he was glancing around the aisles. But I’m still thinking about Doakes and the VHS tape, and about the Everglades. Him being god knows where below a thick cover of cypress and mangrove, surrounded by fucking alligators and mud and mosquitoes.

“A beer?” I say with a shrug, only half jokingly.

He smiles slightly.

Ten minutes later, we’re rolling down 41. Lundy’s driving, an open box of Junior Mints stuck between his skinny thighs, and I’m drinking a jumbo Diet Coke, my arm propped up against the window. It’s not as good as a beer, but at least it’s cold, and at least there’s a lot of it.

He just got off the phone with the field office, but the conversation didn’t conclude with much more than an update to the BOLO and an agreement to send agents to guard both ends of 41. The reality is that a three-day-old security tape isn’t much to go on, and even the feds don’t have the resources to send a couple thousand bodies with sticks into the swamp to beat bushes. We don’t even know for sure that Doakes was heading for the Everglades instead of Miami, or, for that matter, anywhere else in the state.

And Lundy still seems pensive. He fell silent after he updated me on the other half of the phone call, and I’ve been glancing at him since, wondering if he’s gonna share what’s on his mind on his own, but so far he apparently hasn’t felt compelled.

“What’s up?” I prompt, finally.

He glances at me. “I’m just thinking about Doakes.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say, setting my cup on my knee. “Anything specific on your mind?”

“Yes.” He adjusts the Junior Mints. “Your lieutenant approached me today. She said she was with Doakes on a two-week stake out when Larry Mueller went missing, and that they were sharing a motel room. She’s certain he wouldn’t have had time to abduct him, and she has the documentation to prove it.”

I absorb what he’s saying, as I look out the window at the endless stream of trees flowing by. “What kind of documentation?”

“Her personal notes— none of which could be used to defend him at trial, for obvious reasons. But they may still mean something.”

I look back at him. “Do they though? She’s saying in two weeks there wasn’t a single night when he could’ve slipped away? What, were they super glued at the hip? How could she remember for certain?”

“I had a similar thought.” He shrugs. “Still, the timing is odd. If they were sharing a room, why would he risk her noticing his movements? Why wouldn’t he wait until they’d finished their assignment?”

“Maybe he was bored?” I suggest, knowing I’m being facetious. When he doesn’t reply immediately, I take a sip of Coke and exhale, debating whether or not to share a bit of office gossip. “Or maybe it was that them sharing a room didn’t stop him before.”

His brows arch as he glances at me. “They were involved?”

“That’s the rumor.” I nod. “Supposedly they broke up when LaGuerta took credit for the bust that got her promoted to lieutenant. Of course,” I make a ‘whatever’ gesture, “it’s just gossip.”

“What do you think?”

I shrug, but I don’t have to think about it. “I believe it. You’ve seen how they are together. Were.” I pause. “And I believe she believes her notes, but that doesn’t make them true. Hell, if he was that determined to slip away, he could’ve used the M-99 on her— stuck it in her neck while she was sleeping, or put it in her food. He could’ve gone out and come back without her ever knowing…”

I kind of trail off, having a sudden memory of waking up with a headache, after mixing Valium and wine. I remember going to bed with Rudy, but I know he didn’t stay. At some point that night he left me sleeping in his bed to distribute Monique Santos’ body parts under a Christmas tree. For all I know he might’ve fed me more than Valium. He probably did, or dosed me once I was out to make sure I stayed out.

But I don’t share that with Lundy. I don’t want him to know I let him do that to me, that I just took whatever it was he gave me. Like a gullible fucking moron.

And, besides, it makes me a little sick to think about Doakes doing that to LaGuerta.

Lundy glances at me. I’m not sure if he caught my change in tone. But, “That’s certainly possible,” is what he says. And then he pops another Junior Mint. He doesn’t seem mollified. “But LaGuerta’s notes aren’t the only evidence that present a contradictory time line. I’ve got Doakes on duty during several other disappearances.”

Once again I take a second to respond. The doubt in his expression is taking me a little off guard. “But only a few of our victims even have short windows for their disappearances. Are you saying you’ve found a solid alibi for one of them?”

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Then I don’t understand.” I recross my legs. “Where’s this coming from?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling I have.”

I watch him for an extended moment, as he pops several more Junior Mints and chews them quietly, his brow furrowed. This is the first time I’ve seen him not be certain about something. Then again, this is the first time we’ve really talked about Doakes since the day after we launched the manhunt.

But at this point, after what we found today, any doubts I might’ve had are gone, and it surprises me that he doesn’t feel the same.

“I don’t share your feeling,” I say eventually. “The blood slides in his trunk aside, an innocent man wouldn’t have fled into the Everglades using a car he’d rented under an alias. An innocent man wouldn’t have abandoned his own car at the airport and cut contact with not just the world, but the only people in his life who give a shit about him. If Doakes can explain himself, what could he possibly have to gain by hiding from the FBI and his own colleagues in the swamp? Why not reach out to us?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s odd to me that Doakes would use an ID he’d know we’d be tracking, and used the same card to rent the car as he did to buy the gas. He’d have to have known we’d pick up his trail, so why leave one at all?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t have another fake identity handy.” I pause. “Or maybe he didn’t want to stay hidden forever. If he did, he could’ve used his friend Leonis to fly from Haiti to port au fuck all. Instead he came back to Florida. We still don’t know for sure what he was even doing in Haiti.”

“You think he’s planning something?”

“I don’t know,” I repeat, with another shrug. “But he had to have known this day was coming since his victims were dragged up out of the ocean. Unless he really was arrogant enough to think you’d never figure him out.”

He smiles thinly at my compliment.

I return it before shifting back in my seat, letting it fade. “I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing hiding in the Everglades though, if that really is where he is. Seems like a good way to get trapped, with there being only one road he can take to get in or out.” I pause. “Frankly, it seems like a good way to get fucking eaten by gators.”

He glances at me. His expression is a little weird.

“What?” I ask, trying to interpret it.

“No, you’re right,” he says.

“About what?”

“About everything. With all the evidence, with his behavior, there really shouldn’t be any doubt.”

Shouldn’t? I arch my brow at him. “Yet you’re still not convinced?”

“It’s just a feeling.” He shrugs again, stretches his arm over the wheel. “I’m not saying it makes any sense.” His smile is self-deprecating, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Again I’m left studying him. His impenetrability is as fascinating as it is irritating. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” I press, because I don’t feel any closer to understanding his hesitancy.

“No.” He shakes his head, and doesn’t say anything else.

I look at him awhile longer, then, slowly, let my gaze travel back out the window. I don’t know if he’s being honest, but I don’t know why he wouldn’t be. He’s never given me any reason not to trust him. And I do trust him, even if, for once, I think he’s off base.

I sip on my Diet Coke.

I don’t know what Doakes is doing back in Florida though. Everything else I can explain. Everything else can make some sort of sense. Everything except him coming back and going straight underground. And—

“What the fuck was he doing in Naples?” I ask the same question I asked on our way here, and again as we were leaving Lariat Rent-a-Car.

Lundy shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

We glance at each other, but I still don’t have a theory to posit. When I don’t say anything, he picks up the box of Junior Mints and holds it out to me. “Want any?” he asks.

I look between him and the box, realizing that, for now, this conversation is pretty much over. That we just don’t know enough. That it’s a Saturday, and this afternoon we were sitting at a cafe, and for a few precious moments it really seemed like we have a shot of being together forever. Or, at least, beyond the end of this case. Everything else faded to background noise.

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

He taps some mints into my hand, and we both eat them. And then we don’t say anything to each other for awhile, as we drive through the middle of the Everglades back toward home.


	70. Screwed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s strange to me that the implication is that the cops who arrested Batista were from Vice. As far as I know, prostitution and sex crimes aren’t lumped under the same umbrella. The real Miami PD has a Special Victims unit (and, at least as far as I can tell, doesn’t actually have a specialized Vice unit, which… is kind of funny, when you think about it). But Dexter is a magical world of plot holes and fantasy police procedure, so I’ll roll with what the show is dolling.
> 
> Not that anyone besides me cares, but I figured I’d acknowledge that this is weird and it changes the scope of the kind of work Deb must’ve been doing prior to her transfer to Homicide.
> 
> Also, first part of this chapter’s kind of easter eggy, but I’ve been looking for an excuse to put this in the time line for awhile so here it is.

__

_Screwed  
_ _Setting: “Left Turn Ahead”_

* * *

I leave Lundy to his status report, disappointed that we won’t be able to do lunch and irritated by the general concept of D. D. Adams, but those feeling fade as I push open the door to the stairs. Halfway down the flight, my thoughts slide back to Batista, to this fat fucking mess he landed himself in.

And to that fucking anemic, horse-toothed bitch. Because I can’t believe even she would stoop this low, and I don’t know what end game she could possibly have here.

I yank open the door to the second floor and step into the space Vice and Narcotics occupy. It’s instantly a little off putting. I haven’t been down here since I transferred out.

I spot LaGuerta talking to Vice’s LT, Terrance Hillman, in his office with the door shut. Peters and Borelli are in there too. Batista is not. My instinct is to walk over and knock on the door, but I know it would be a mistake, so I hang back a couple yards from my old desk and wait for them to come out. As my thoughts swirl around.

I don’t know what’s going on. The arrest warrant said that Lila was roofied and raped, but there were no details, and the Vice detectives had Batista out of our department before I could ask them. But that doesn’t make any sense unless Lila took that shit herself.

All I know is Batista would never do this. Ever. He’s every bit the stone-cold moron my brother is for getting involved with that cunt to begin with, but he’d never hurt her, let alone drug her first. For as fucked as everything has been lately, that I still believe. That I know for certain.

“Hey, Morgan. Long time, no see.”

I look right to see Nick Grady-Got and Joe Paradiso walking in my direction from the elevator, along with two other cops wearing detective badges I don’t recognize. Joe has, unfortunately, grown back the porn ‘stache he was sporting when I first moved into Vice.

It’s strange to see them again, after everything that’s happened since October.

“Hey,” I say. “How’s it going, you guys?”

We exchange brief hugs. Nick claps me on the shoulder with his sausage mitt of a hand before stepping back.

“It’s going,” Nick says. “We’re working a joint case with Narcotics with Quinn and Stewart here.” He gestures at the strangers. “Have you guys met?”

I shake my head.

“Unfortunately not.” Quinn grins at me as he sticks out his hand. I almost roll my eyes. “Joseph Quinn. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Debra Morgan,” I say, taking it and going extra firm on the squeeze. “Likewise.”

“Nice handshake,” he says, still grinning. He knows he’s good looking.

“Thanks,” I say without really meaning it as I take the other guy’s hand. So not interested.

“Jim Stewart,” Quinn’s partner says as we squeeze each other’s bones. “Also a pleasure.”

“Jim Stewart?” I repeat, arching a brow as I let go of his hand.

“Yeah, I know.” He’s grinning like Quinn. With them standing next to Nick and Paradiso I can feel the testosterone levels in my immediate bubble growing exponentially, and I don’t know whether it’s funny or annoying. The Narcotics detectives look like even bigger meat heads than my old colleagues, and I’m already feeling the impulse to puff myself up in response.

“He gets that all the time,” Quinn says.

“I’m sure,” I say.

“Anyway, we’ve got to go update Yuki,” Stewart says, glancing at his watch. “Come on, Joey.”

“Roger that.” He looks at the two Vice cops. “You guys coming?”

Nick nods. “We’ll catch up. I want to chat with Morgan for a second.”

He nods. “Alright.” His gaze returns to me. “See you around.”

“Yeah,” I say. “See you.”

He’s still grinning as he and Stewart walk away, through the doors that lead to Narcotics’ side of the floor and out of sight. I watch them go, still not sure where on the spectrum they fell between funny and irritating.

“So I heard you’re on the Bay Harbor case,” Paradiso says, bringing my attention back to him. His expression has flattened. “How certain are you guys that it’s Doakes?”

“Pretty certain.” I hook my thumbs in my pockets. “Did you know him?”

He shrugs. “We met a few times. Never worked with him though.”

“I worked with him on a couple cases, back when he and LaGuerta were in Narcotics,” Nick says. “He seemed like a decent guy. Little intense, but…” He trails off. “Never would’ve thought.”

“Goes to show,” Paradiso says.

Goes to show what? I want to say, but don’t.

Nick lowers his voice as he moves a little closer to ask, “You guys close to finding him?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But it’s raining feds upstairs and we may have a bead on where he’s hiding. If he’s anywhere within our search grid, I doubt he’ll hold out much longer.” Of course, it’s possible that he isn’t, in which case the task force is gonna be left holding its dick, but I’m not gonna say that.

“Well, good luck. I hope it all ends peacefully.”

“So do I,” I agree.

We’re quiet for a beat, and I find myself glancing back toward the office, where the lieutenants and the detectives are still sequestered. I wonder where they took Batista. Maybe into one of the interview rooms. Maybe somewhere else. Briefing room?

“So what brings you down to Vice, Morgan?” Paradiso asks as he sits on the desk I’m standing next to. “Miss us?”

“Terribly,” I deadpan, looking away from the office. “No, there’s some shit going on with one of our detectives. A good friend of mine, actually.” Somehow I can finally say that without feeling like a piece of shit, for being the reason he got stabbed in his own parking garage back in December.

“That involves Vice?” Both of them follow where I was looking, and they finally seem to notice LaGuerta. “What happened? He get caught with his pants down with some hoe?”

I don’t want to answer that. “Something like that.”

From his face I think he sensed my tone. But frankly this whole thing is such garbage it doesn’t bear repeating, and I’d rather change the subject.

“Tell me about your narc case,” I say.

Nick glances at Paradiso as he leans on the desk next to him. Even half reclined he’s taller than both of us. “Sure,” he says.

We chat for awhile about their developing operation over in Allapattah: coke heads and pros and stacks of fake IDs and laundered money. I’m glad I’m not in Vice anymore. I don’t miss this shit at all. Knowing my luck if they’d even assigned me to a case this large I’d have ended up far on the periphery as a piece of background decoration, spending 90% of my time on a hot sidewalk with a bunch of crack-addled whores. I’m thankful to be standing here in plain clothes.

Then we move on to gossip. Apparently Gianna’s renounced men again. They’ve got some new guy, Abrams, transferring in from Omaha. Sanchez is rotating out, going back to uniform to be on the bike squad. Narcotics is getting some new, fancy car. Paradiso is getting roped into the police gala in a couple months, which, thankfully, the rest of us aren’t getting anywhere near.

Finally, the LT’s door opens, and I glance over to see LaGuerta and the two Vice detectives following Hillman out of the office. They all look pretty stone faced. Not a good sign.

“That’s my cue,” I murmur, slowly uncrossing my arms. They both glance in the direction of the office. “I’m gonna follow them,” I continue, “but it’s been nice catching up with you guys.”

“Yeah,” Paradiso says. “It’s good to see you. Glad you’re at home in Homicide.”

“Me too.”

I smile at them, then make a move to start walking away, but Nick gets off the desk, stopping me. It takes him a second to say whatever’s on his mind. “Uh, and I heard what happened to you,” he says, awkwardly. “Obviously.” He pauses. “I’m glad you’re alright. We were… worried about you.”

It weirds me out to see the earnestness in his expression, from the seven-foot-tall beef steak who usually can’t stop talking about his latest supplement routine or whatever he saw in the last fetish tape that crossed his desk. It occurs to me that I don’t think I’ve seen him be serious about anything more than a handful of times.

Temporarily, I don’t know what to say, though I don’t know why I didn’t expect one of them to mention it. I glance at Paradiso, then back to Nick.

“Thanks,” I say finally, when nothing else comes to me. “It’s been…” But I trail off, unsure how to qualify it. “I don’t know. But I’m okay now.”

“I’m really glad to hear that.” He claps my shoulder again, smiling maybe a bit too broadly. “You’re tough as nails, Morgan.”

It hits me that he really gives a shit, and maybe Paradiso and half of Vice do too. I remember, somewhat uncomfortably, how many calls I never returned, when I was a little lost. I think his may’ve been one of them.

But I have zero intention of going there. “That’s fucking right,” I say with a grin, mustering up some bravado.

Paradiso smiles too.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go,” I say. “See you, guys.”

“See you, Morgan,” Paradiso says.

“See you,” Nick echoes.

With a nod, I turn and walk away from them, in the direction of where the other cops went. I have a feeling it’s the briefing room. And as I go I replay the last fifteen seconds of that interaction a couple times. Strangely, I feel a little stronger than I did before. Like something inside me just clicked into place.

And then I’m stopped outside the briefing room, and, sure enough, through the windows I can see the lieutenants and the detectives inside. And Batista. He’s already seated, but the rest of them are pulling out their chairs. LaGuerta notices me as she sits, and she gestures me inside.

Nodding, I open the door.

“—stand what happened,” Borelli’s saying. He stops talking when he sees me coming in, and they all glance at me. Batista looks like a man condemned. But at least he’s not fucking cuffed.

Hillman’s brows lift a quarter of an inch. “Hello, Officer Morgan.”

I gently press the door shut behind me. “Hello, sir,” I say. “It’s good to see you.”

Neither of my old colleagues look terribly pleased to see me. Maybe it’s because I threatened to shove their cuffs up their assholes earlier, but who knows. LaGuerta for once doesn’t seem to mind my existence. If anything she looks… maybe not relieved, but whatever’s a level removed from that.

I go sit next to Batista, opposite the two Vice cops. My old boss is sitting at the head of the table. LaGuerta’s next to him, on Batista’s right. The tension’s thick.

“As I was saying,” Borelli continues what I interrupted, “regardless of everyone’s opinions on whether or not this is bullshit, we need to go over what happened. The case here isn’t exactly insubstantial.”

I resist the urge to interject myself, instead cross my arms on my lap. Slowly, quietly, blow out a breath.

“I’ll answer anything I can,” Batista says.

Borelli nods. “Give us your version of events.”

Batista hesitates for a second, glancing at me and LaGuerta. His misery is tempered by a flush of embarrassment. “I… went over to Lila’s place,” he says, looking back across the table. “I’ve been helping her repaint her loft. We were drinking wine. We were maybe a glass or so from finishing off the bottle when she propositioned me. She…” He hesitates again. I can feel his discomfort coming off him in waves. “She said she… liked it rough. So we did. I did. What she asked.”

Peters leans forward slightly, sticks his palms on the table. He’s got a file sitting in front of him, but he hasn’t opened it. “So you did have sex?”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying her bruising was from rough, but consensual sex?”

“Yes.”

Peters nods. I’m not sure if he believes him, which pisses me off.

And, suddenly, against my will, I can hear _them_ echoing in my skull: Dexter and Corpsezilla, from the other side of a wall. Screeching and moaning like a donkey giving birth to a feral cat. Some of those times she knew I was there. I’m convinced she got louder just to drive me out of the apartment.

I zero back in on Batista. “Afterwards, she went to the bathroom,” he’s saying. “She was in there maybe a minute or two. Then I heard a crash, and I came in to find her lying on the ground with an injury to her forehead. I called an ambulance. I didn’t move her. She was still unconscious when they carried her out.”

“That’s what happened?” Peters says.

“Yes.”

“What were you doing when you heard the crash?” Borelli asks.

“I was at the fridge, opening a beer.”

Borelli and Peters look at each other for a beat. I glance from Batista to LaGuerta, still attempting to exorcise those sounds from my head, along with the sight of her white tits glaring at me from behind Dex’s refrigerator. The first but not the only time I saw them.

“Here’s what we’ve got on our side of it,” Peters says. “The bruising could mean something, or it could not. Both your BACs reflect your story. The real problem is there was Rohypnol found in Lila’s system, and a lot of it. There were several doses’ worth in her blood. Can you explain that?”

“No. I…” He trails off. “I can’t explain that.”

The bitch dosed herself, I almost say. Don’t.

“That’s a problem.”

“The fuck it is,” I say, unable to keep a lid on it anymore. “I can explain it. She dosed herself.”

“Why would she do that?” Peters looks at me. So does everyone else, except Batista. He’s looking down at the table.

“Who knows why that crazy bitch does anything?” I say. “My brother just broke it off with her to get back with his ex. Like it’s some coincidence she started showing up at the station barely a day or two later, latches onto someone else in the department? Jesus christ, Angel, stand up for yourself. I know my brother warned you about her. Hell, _I_ warned you about her.”

The Vice cops look at him. “Is that true?” Borelli asks.

“Yeah,” Batista affirms after a pause. “He told me she was using me to get at him.”

“And I’m sure I’m not the only one who told you she was a fucking whackjob,” I say.

“Morgan,” LaGuerta warns.

I glance at her. I’m sure she regrets letting me in here, but maybe not. At least I can say the shit she can’t. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” I say, “but this is ridiculous. We all know Batista would never do something like this.”

“It doesn’t matter what we ‘know,’ Morgan,” Peters says. “She’s filed charges, and the evidence is on her side. You think a jury’s going to buy that she took Rohypnol of her own volition?”

I’m temporarily silenced, as I search for a counter. But no one says anything in the vacuum, and I start talking again as I think it, “Did you hear Lila actually do anything when she was in the bathroom?” I ask. “Running water? Toilet flush? Anything?”

“I don’t know,” Batista says. “I don’t remember.”

It doesn’t matter. “She probably went in there to take the dose. When it took effect she fell, knocked herself out on the sink or something. That’d explain why it worked so quickly.”

“Or she was already unconscious and he moved her in there to stage the scene,” Peters says.

I glare at him. “You know that’s horse shit, Peters.”

“Because a jury won’t buy the story of a cop dosing this girl, raping her, then dragging her into the bathroom over the idea that she went through this much effort to frame him for an assault? She had the foresight to buy those pills and got him to bruise her up? Why? Just to get back at her ex? How does that make sense? Especially with all this shit happening in your department with the Butcher, where do you honestly think anyone outside your immediate circle is gonna fall on this?”

LaGuerta looks wounded again, the same way she always is whenever Doakes is brought up. And, unfortunately, I’ve got nothing.

Batista is still staring at the table. He looks utterly defeated.

“I don’t know,” I say finally. “You’re right about how this looks, but this is wrong.”

“Then bring me something, because right now neither this story nor public opinion of this department is going to help your cause.”

“Fucking count on it,” I promise, with more aggression than I have confidence. Coz, if I’m honest, Peters is right: the roofies pretty much screw any argument I or anyone else could make about her character.

“What happens now?” Batista asks.

“Officially, we’re still gathering evidence,” Borelli says. “Unofficially…” He lets his voice trail off, doesn’t finish.

What? Get your affairs in order?

“He’s free to go?” LaGuerta asks.

“Yes. For now.”

“Thank you,” Batista says, somewhat meekly. “I appreciate that.”

We all start getting up. The meeting’s shortness is concerning: it’s clear that if Batista wasn’t in the department, he wouldn’t be walking out of the building today. And I’m not sure what it means that my old boss hasn’t said a word. I wonder what he, LaGuerta, and the detectives were talking about in his office earlier, if there’s anything they’re not telling Batista. Hillman’s an asshole, but I’m sure he’d look for any excuse to drop this.

As we’re filing out the door, LaGuerta tells the Vice cops that she’ll escort Batista out, and they nod and let us go. I fall in step behind my current colleagues as we walk toward the elevator in total silence. I can hardly contain myself the farther we get from the meeting room. Every desk in Vice’s pen is empty, but this isn’t the place to unload.

That place is the elevator.

I round on Batista the second the doors shut. “Where the hell is your rep?” I ask.

“I didn’t ask for him,” he says.

“What?” That’s infuriating. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind and replaced it with shit? Why the fuck didn’t you keep your mouth shut in there? Jesus christ, Angel.”

“What is there to hide behind? I don’t deny we had sex. I know what this looks like.”

“So you’re just gonna fucking lie there and let her skullfuck you?”

LaGuerta makes a face like she’s vaguely offended by my tirade. Maybe in some other universe I care.

The doors open.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Batista says, stepping out.

We follow him, and I open my mouth in frustration.

LaGuerta cuts me short. “I’ll do what I can for you, Angel,” she says as she fishes around her pocket, “but you need to call your rep, and then you need to call him.” She holds out a card. “My attorney. I’ll let him know about the situation. He’ll help you.”

Batista looks at the card, then takes it, reads it over as we walk. “Thanks,” he says after a second. “I really appreciate that.” He glances at us both as he sticks it in his pocket. “And I appreciate you guys believing in me.”

“You’re a good man,” LaGuerta says. “And I’ve known you a long time. I know you wouldn’t do something like this. We all do.”

“It’s not even a question,” I say.

“And your record with this department isn’t meaningless, what’s going on with the Bay Harbor Butcher aside.” It seems to pain her to mention that. “You can fight this, and you should.”

“You _will,”_ I add.

Batista looks at us again, pausing in front of the exit doors. “I’ll do whatever I can,” he says, then pushes one of the doors open.

We both hug him when we get to the parking lot. He looks so miserable I feel compelled to assure him that everything’s gonna be fine. And though I don’t know how yet, I’m certain it’s true, because I won’t let Lila fuck up Batista’s life forever, even if it means having to weight her and throw her in the river myself.

And then he’s shuffling away, back to his car. LaGuerta and I don’t move from where we stopped for awhile, as we watch him pull out of his space and head out of the lot. This is the longest we’ve been alone together since she all but accused me of being heartless, but for once I don’t have the urge to get away from her as quickly as possible.

“What a fucking week,” she murmurs eventually, either to me or just herself.

I glance at her, somewhat surprised by the f-bomb. It occurs to me that this time last week Doakes wasn’t a serial killer, and our department wasn’t fraying at the seams. None of us have had time to breathe, and she least of all.

“How’re you doing with all this?” I find myself asking.

When she meets my eyes I’m a little taken aback by the sudden hostility there. “How do you think?” she asks flatly. She doesn’t wait for me to reply before turning and heading back for the station doors.

I watch her ago. For two seconds it really felt like we could be normal people with each other, like whatever problem she has with me may finally have been smoothed away by a common sympathy. Then again, that question must’ve sounded shitty, coming from me of all people: I’m one of the few who doesn’t have much doubt about Doakes’ double life, and Lundy and I are the source of the security tape we were watching in the briefing this morning.

I don’t move for awhile after she disappears back inside. I want to make sure I’m not gonna catch up with her. And as I stand here, baking in the sun, my thoughts slide from her to Doakes to Batista to Lila and back. By the end of the second go-round, I finally unstick from the pavement and head for shelter, crossing my arms as I go.

What a fucking mess…


	71. Professional Ethics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let’s be real again, the Lila situation was weird. At the least Vice would’ve run her through NCIC and noticed the identity she gave when filing the assault charges was a dummy. I know why the show never addressed it— because it doesn’t matter, and Lila was fated to be murdered by Dexter, not drop kicked out of the country by Deb —but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t kind of bug me, so I wanted to talk about that a little.

__

_Professional Ethics  
_ _Setting: “Left Turn Ahead”_

* * *

It’s day two of Adams’ take over. Lundy’s been standing placidly next to him the whole briefing, and he hasn’t said more than a couple words. Neither have the rest of the feds, or anyone on Miami Metro’s end of the room. Adams likes to talk.

But so far it’s just been a lot of nothing. Along with the roll of butchering tools those divers recovered the other day, Adams also brought the federal funding to bankroll the county’s aviation unit to fly in grids over the Everglades, but they haven’t found shit yet. I don’t know if it’s worth the money— I’m not entirely convinced Doakes is still in the swamp, that he hasn’t switched cars or hiked out or boated across the Gulf or something —but besides the road blocks along 41 no one’s had any better ideas. For all intents and purposes, Doakes fell off the face of the planet five days ago: the security tape and those two card transactions are all we have.

Mentally, I’ve been in and out of the briefing. Batista’s absence is palpable, and every time I feel it I’m hit with a fresh wave of frustration. I’ve been trying to come up with how to find Lila’s real identity since Lundy ran her name this morning. I’m certain it’s the key to getting this to go away. There’s only one reason she’d be living under a false name, and it would make my fucking month if I found an open warrant or, even better, an expired green card attached to her pasty ass.

I realize I was drifting again, tune back into the meeting. Immediately want to retract.

“I’d like those of you with Miami Metro to keep following up on the tip lines,” Adams is saying. “Who knows, this case could be broken by finding one legitimate tip.”

That’s just fucking great.

I’m very careful not to react as I drain the last of my coffee, somewhat surprised he didn’t come up with something more pejorative to call us. Yesterday was one long waste of time.

“The rest of you all have your assignments and are dismissed. Agent Timmerman, I’d like a brief word with you before you go.”

She nods and walks over to him, as around me everyone else gets up and starts heading for the door. I lift an eyebrow as I make eye contact with Lundy. He gives me a smile back, but I get the sense he isn’t going to be separating from Adams any time soon, so, moderately disappointed, I turn for the exit too.

Masuka falls in step next to me as I go. “You know Adams had some FBI monkey run the trace on those tools he brought in yesterday?” he says to me, without preamble, the moment we reach the hallway.

“You’re offended you’re not his monkey?” I ask, unsure why he’s telling me this. Then it occurs to me that neither Dexter nor Batista are here for him to bitch to.

“I’m the LFI.” He jabs at his collar. “It’s a breach of professional ethics.”

The funny thing is he’s serious. “Yeah, like Adams gives a shit,” I scoff. “Wait,” I say as a thought strikes me, as I slap him across the chest. “I’m fucking retarded. We just need to run her prints.”

“What?” he says.

I pull him closer to my desk. “Lila,” I clarify, more quietly, as I set my empty coffee cup on top of some of the crap on my desk. “I ran her name this morning and found out she’s living under an alias. We just need to find something she touched and run her prints through AFIS. Assuming she entered the country legally, her prints are on file somewhere. If she didn’t, even better.”

He doesn’t seem impressed by my discovery. “What good would that do?” he asks.

I cross my arms. “I sure as shit would like to know what she’s doing living under a false name. Whatever she’s hiding, it might be enough to get her thrown out of the country.”

He thinks for a second. “That won’t make the rape charges go away.”

“No, but the department climbing up her ass with a magnifying glass might scare her enough to drop them.”

“Touché.” He bobs his head. “So do you have something with her prints?”

“No. But I bet Dexter does…” I trail off as I glance around, half hoping that my brother will suddenly materialize somewhere useful. He doesn’t. “Wherever he is,” I mutter, wondering not for the first time why he isn’t here. “You know where he is?”

He shrugs. “Probably off playing hooky with his girlfriend again.”

I make a face. “Fucking slacker.” I exhale. “Whatever. I’ll call Batista. Maybe he has something she touched.”

“Besides his pecker?”

“You think he’d let you put it in the fume box?” I ask, moving around and then plopping behind my desk.

Masuka shakes his head as I settle. “Gross, Morgan,” he says.

I offer him a smile, but he keeps shaking his head as he wanders back toward his hole. I don’t watch him go. I’m already reaching for my land phone. Batista answers on the third ring.

“Hello, this is Detective Batista.”

“Hey, it’s Deb,” I say.

“Hey.” He sounds miserable. Or hungover. Or both.

“Listen,” I lean back and cross my legs, “I may have found something to help you. I ran Lila’s name this morning and found out she doesn’t exist. I’m not sure what she’d want to hide so much that she’d risk filing an assault charge under a false name, but I sure as shit would like to find out.”

There’s silence on the other end for a beat. I wait it out.

“I would too,” he says finally.

“Do you happen to have anything she might’ve touched?”

More silence. I hear his phone adjust. “I think so, yeah.” Pause. “Yes, I do. She used my microwave last time she was here.”

“Great.”

“I can have it there in thirty minutes.”

“Great,” I say again. “I’ll let Masuka know.”

“Thanks.” Another pause. “And thank you, Deb. I’m really grateful for your help on this.”

I still can’t tell if he’s miserable or just hungover. “Like there’s any way I’d let that blood-sucking cunt fuck up your life.”

He doesn’t react to my language. “Still,” he says, almost insistently, “I just want you to know.”

“I know.” And I feel sorry for him, even if he should’ve known better. “Everything’s gonna be fine, I promise.”

“I hope you’re right. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah. See you soon.”

I set down the receiver. I had the impulse to tease him about that actualization crap he was going on about back in February, but it wouldn’t have been funny. Because Masuka’s not wrong— even if whatever I find attached to Lila’s real name is enough to get her punted either into a cell or out of the country, that won’t erase what she’s alleging. I’ll need more. Something to threaten her with. The problem is I still have no idea what.

 _Or_ I could go back to plan A, chop off her head, stick it on a pike, drop it in the river. That would make this go away…

I exhale as I reach for my coffee cup, remember as I lift it that it’s empty, set it back down again. Tap my fingers on my desk. I’ve got a small pile of tip line call back bullshit to deal with for Adams, and I could probably accomplish something on that in the half hour between now and when Batista gets here, but I can’t refocus on it. I don’t feel like I’ve done enough.

So, after a second, I find myself reaching for my phone again, this time to dial down to Vice. I request Borelli, remove the empty cup from my desk and toss it in the trash while I wait for him to pick up.

“Detective Borelli,” he answers finally.

“It’s Morgan,” I say.

“What’s up, Morgan?” His voice is a tad terse.

I can’t say I blame him, but I also don’t care how he feels about me right now. “So I found out something interesting this morning,” I say, not bothering with niceties. He knows why I’m calling. “Turns out Lila Tournay doesn’t exist.”

“So you ran her.” It’s not a question.

“I take it this isn’t news to you then?” I ask.

“What do you think?”

“So what’re you planning to do about it?” I press, when he doesn’t elaborate.

“What I do or don’t do about it isn’t something I have to tell you. Or should tell you.” I inhale, an f- - - springing to my lips, but he preemptively cuts me off. “Listen,” he says, dropping his voice, “I know you care about your friend. I know what you want me to say, and, if I’m being honest with you, I think you’re probably right: I think she’s full of shit. Two seconds into our interview and I knew she was a nutjob. But this isn’t a case for your department, and I can’t discuss anything specific with you. You know that. As it is this is a hair’s breath from being taken away from us over conflict of interest. IAD is already all over this.”

Maybe I should’ve tried my luck with Peters instead. “Would you be interested in knowing whatever AFIS kicks out on her?”

His sigh is audible. “What do you think?” he repeats.

The answer’s no. What we’re doing isn’t illegal, but it isn’t above board either. Anything he found out from me he’d have to duplicate on his end or risk having to explain how he knew it.

“Has IAD said anything?” I ask rather than answer. “Hypothetically?”

There’s a long pause. “Hypothetically, they want this to go away,” he says after it’s stretched for what feels like half a minute.

“Hypothetically, are you gonna be able to help that happen?”

“Hypothetically, if I were you, I’d keep doing whatever you’re doing.”

“Okay,” I say, absorbing that.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go. Good luck. Do me a favor and don’t keep me in the loop.”

“Roger that. Nice talking to you, Borelli.”

“Right back atcha.” His tone is only mildly sarcastic.

I set the receiver back in its cradle. Brush my hair back as I think. Borelli didn’t say anything I didn’t expect. I’m not sure what I was hoping for in calling him. Though at the least it’s good to have gotten confirmation that Vice and, by extension, IAD knows about her false name, for whatever it’s worth. Could be good for a perjury charge, at the least.

Once again, I glance at the tip line stuff. Lift the sheet, glance under ‘Narrative.’ This guy, Tyler Randall, claims he saw Doakes heading for the border up near Jacksonville three days ago. Described his vehicle as a “dark sedan.” No license plate, no specific make/model. _Okay._

I push up from my seat. I’ll give Randall a call in a minute. Right now I’m gonna let Masuka know he has to get his shit prepped. God willing, by the afternoon we’ll have Lila’s real name, and it’ll turn out she’s got like six open warrants or something.


	72. Contradictions

__

_Contradictions  
_ _Setting: “Left Turn Ahead”_

* * *

We’re both sweaty. Lundy keeps his place cold as a fucking ice box, but I’m as hot as I am a little weak, as I adjust myself over his body, lightly digging my fingernails into his shoulder. As we kiss again. Now that it’s over, my thoughts are slowly trickling back, but I’m letting them flow by. For once they don’t matter to me. All there is the action of this, the taste of him, the sound of our breath over the jazz he left playing in the living room, his hand on my back, thumb resting along the curve of a rib.

But I can feel him stiffening, everywhere but where it matters. For once he’s the one that isn’t all the way here. When I showed up on his doorstep after I paid my visit to Lila, he wasn’t immediately into my desire for a victory lap. He was poring over a pile of shit on his dining room table, wanted to talk about Doakes, but I wasn’t in the mood for it. All I wanted was to conquer him, the same way it felt like I had just conquered Lila.

So I did. I all but dragged him back here, with an aggression I haven’t felt in a long time. Since before what happened to me.

Though maybe there’s a new edge to it. I feel weirdly possessive of him now, weirdly bothered that I’m losing him. There’s an urge to try to take control of him, force him back to me, but I realize it’s a little wrong, and I’m rapidly losing his response anyway.

So I pull away, about an inch. “What?” I murmur, still feeling him in my mouth. And elsewhere. My leg is curled around his knee. Sweat on sweat. I can smell us everywhere.

“Would it kill the mood if I said I was thinking about Doakes?” he asks.

I study his eyes for a beat, find him absent. “Yes,” I affirm.

“Sorry,” he says, smiling thinly.

I shake my head and kiss him again, dryly, then roll off him, land on my back half on top of a pillow. The air from the AC hits my skin, raising goose flesh. I grab the sheet and pull it over my chest, then shove the pillow back under my head. Beside me, Lundy shifts up, puffs out a breath.

“This about that Leonis thing?” I guess, though I don’t know the specifics. I interrupted him before he could tell me earlier.

“Partly, yes.”

He’s pulling me back to Earth now. “Tell me about it,” I say.

He turns to look at me, but doesn’t say anything for a second. “Let me use the bathroom first,” is what he says.

I snort. “Fucking geriatric,” I mutter as he rolls out of bed.

“Ha ha,” he says, glancing back at me before heading for the bathroom.

I watch his ass as he goes, smooth the sheet once he disappears inside. But as I lie here I feel my own body talk to me. Wince. “Fucking me too,” I mutter after a couple seconds, also sliding out of bed.

Fifteen minutes later we’re both back in the living room, freshly showered and freshly clothed. The music’s off. Lundy’s vaguely casual in a polo shirt and the slacks he was wearing earlier. I’ve traded my work clothes for a pair of jeans and a camisole/short-sleeved shirt combo. Lundy’s moved some of the stuff that was on his dining table to the coffee table, and he’s got his FBI notebook in his hand. “S.A. Frank Lundy” is embossed in gold on its cover. It’s pretty much the only thing in his apartment I’ve been hesitant to touch.

“Lieutenant LaGuerta called me earlier today,” he’s saying. He’s still standing, while I’m sitting, cross-legged, on the couch, slowly rubbing my foot through my sock. “She’s in Haiti. She told me she talked to Leonis.”

“Is this what Adams was talking about earlier?” I guess.

“Yes. She said he told her that Doakes was looking for a lab to have the blood slides analyzed.”

I process that for a second. “Analyzed?” I repeat.

“Yes.”

I’m silent for a bit. “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say eventually, when no explanation comes to mind. I stop rubbing my foot.

“No, it doesn’t.”

I think about it, about LaGuerta in Haiti talking to Doakes’ old friend from special forces. Remember what Adams said. “Do you believe that?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, but I can tell that he does. Which is strange. I still find his doubt when it comes to Doakes confusing.

“Not to agree with Adams here, but Leonis isn’t exactly a reliable source,” I point out. “And considering the implication about Doakes’ guilt, why wouldn’t he have told your agents about this when they first interviewed him? Why tell LaGuerta now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he trusted her.”

“That doesn’t make sense. This only helps Doakes’ case. Doesn’t matter who hears the story.”

“Do you think she made it up?”

I look up at him, think about it. “No,” I say after a second. “For as much as she cares about Doakes, she wouldn’t make something like that up.” I pause. “Besides, it’d be a fucking weird thing to come up with.”

“Weird enough that it feels like it could be true.”

“Maybe.” I pause again. “It’s strange that he’d know about the slides at all. No one knows about them. I can’t imagine Doakes would’ve told him.”

“That’s precisely what I thought.” He finally sits across from me on the couch. “Or part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

He looks at the coffee table, reaches over, and picks up a sheet of paper, which he then holds out to me. I take it. It’s a short letter with a DOD insignia. Looks like it was faxed. I skim it.

“This is from the then Operations Sergeant of the special forces unit Doakes was a part of,” Lundy says, before I can ask. “Leonis gave LaGuerta these dates, and the DOD confirmed that Doakes was on mission over their duration.”

“And these contradict our Bay Harbor dates?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Yes,” he confirms.

I let that digest, along with the shit about the blood slides, with what Lundy’s already told me about other date contradictions. Like before, I still don’t have a good explanation, except that there must be one. Because, despite the discrepancies, despite everything we haven’t found, Doakes had those slides, his prints were on those tools, he’s on the run, and there isn’t a better explanation.

“What’s your take?” I ask finally.

“I don’t have one.”

There’s something weird about the way he says that, about his expression as he looks at me. It’s slight, but it’s there. Like it always seems to be. “What?” I say.

“What what?” he says, playing dumb. It annoys me.

“Cut the bullshit, Frank,” I say. “Every time we talk about this you always act like you’re leaving something out.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. “It’s just a theory. I don’t know that it’s worth sharing.”

I pinch my brows as I study his face. “Everything in that magnificent fucking head of yours is worth sharing.”

His smile is very slight, and it fades fast. “Sometimes I wonder if Doakes may’ve been investigating someone,” he admits after a beat. “That he may’ve taken the slides from the real killer. What Leonis told LaGuerta only strengthens that theory.”

I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. For a second I just stare at him, trying to come up with a counter. “I…” I start, but don’t go anywhere with it. “Who?” I say instead.

“That I don’t know.”

I have no idea if he’s being honest with me, but I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be.

“But I’d like to ask Doakes, once we bring him in,” he continues, when I don’t reply.

I look down at the letter I’m still holding, but don’t read it. It’s not that his theory can’t neatly explain a lot of the evidence, but it doesn’t explain all of it, especially not the shit I’m stuck on. “Why run then?” I ask. “Why not tell anyone what’s going on? If he had a suspect, why hide it? Why not go to Masuka with the slides? Or Matthews? Fuck, why not LaGuerta? Why fly to Haiti to talk to his old pal from special forces? Why disappear and allow himself to become the center of a manhunt? Why risk getting shot by the FBI? And if he’s innocent, why did those divers find all those knives with his prints?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

I set the paper back on the coffee table. “There’s an explanation for this,” I say. “All of it. We just don’t have it yet. I can’t believe that an innocent man would go into hiding for this long, especially if he has somewhere else to direct the investigation. It’s too dangerous. Doakes is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

He bobs his head. “I agree with you. That’s why I haven’t brought it up to anyone else.”

Again I study him. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I say. “Besides LaGuerta, everyone in the department, everyone Doakes worked with, believes the evidence. You didn’t know Doakes. You barely talked to him more than a handful of times. Yet you’re the only one who’s still holding out. Why?”

I lose his eyes for a second, as he looks past me, out the window. “He… left an impression on me,” he says. “He never struck me as a murderer.”

“He is a murderer,” I say, because I know that much is true. “He just doesn’t happen to be empty inside.” I pause. “I think he does give a shit. Why else turn vigilante? Pretty much everyone he targeted would’ve been candidates for the death penalty if they’d been caught, or if he’d have let them be caught.” Though I still don’t understand his relationship with Brian Moser. Why he’s the one he didn’t go after, even though, by the standards he seemed to be working off, he would’ve deserved it more than any of the others in that box. Why he was working with him, or playing with him, or whatever it is they were doing.

I don’t say that.

“You’re right,” Lundy says. But he still doesn’t sound convinced.

On impulse I move closer to him. “You have great fucking instincts,” I say, catching his gaze again. “You’re probably the smartest man I’ve ever met. But you’re wrong here. Doakes duped everyone for over ten years, including a squad full of homicide cops. Including me. Including you. That makes a thousand times more sense than him being, what, the victim of a frame job? You really think there’s someone else in the department who’s capable of doing something like that?”

He exhales. I’m close enough to smell the mouthwash on his breath. “No, you’re right.”

I grin. “Damn right I am.”

I want to kiss him now, but the timing’s bad, and he’d retract. Because what he thinks is fucked up, even more so than it already is that the rest of us believe that Doakes is a serial killer. I don’t know if that means he still suspects someone else in the department, but I don’t want to ask. It’s not a thought I really want to entertain.

Instead I find myself checking my watch. 6:49. “I have to get going,” I say.

“Time for dinner?”

“Yeah.” I sit back on my heel. “Dex said he wants to talk about something. You know he had me sign a will this morning?”

“A will?” he repeats. “What prompted that?”

“Apparently his financial planner.” I snort and reach for my Converse, which I left next to the couch. “Which I’d say I can’t believe, but I can.” And then he was calling me last night, asking about weed. Fucking weirdo. “I just hope he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.” I pause as I stick my foot into the shoe. “Oh god, what if this is about getting _me_ to draw up a will? What if he’s got fucking pamphlets?” I’m only half joking as I put on the other shoe and stand up.

Lundy’s brows crease as he follows me up. “You don’t have a will?” he asks.

“I’m not planning on dying any time soon,” I say flippantly. And then I flush, as I realize what a dumb ass thing that was to say. “Or…” I trail off. “I don’t know.” The amusement’s gone. I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. It’d all go to Dexter anyway. He’s the only family I have. I don’t need it written down and notarized, you know?”

He looks only slightly more uncomfortable now than I felt this morning, when I was stuck on the other end of this conversation.

“Whatever,” I say, “it’s not important, and I’ve got to go.” I kiss him lightly, briefly. “See you tonight?”

He smiles. “Count on it.”

I smile back, then go to the counter and pick up my purse, double check that my phone’s still in there, take my gun and badge from where I left them and shove those in too. Sling the bag over my shoulder. Grab my keys. Glance back at Lundy. He’s watching me.

“What’cha looking at?” I ask.

“You,” he says.

I grin. “See you later, Agent Lundy.”

“Have a good time,” he pauses, very briefly, “Officer Morgan.”

“Thanks.” Still grinning, I head for the door.

The second I’m on the other side of it, my thoughts are already switching gears, from Lundy and Doakes and wills to my brother and steaks and Lila West. Even at the risk of having to sit through some pitch about my financial responsibilities, I suddenly can’t wait to get my ass up there so I can tell him about Lila.


	73. The End of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …and it’s finally time to deal with the cabin in the Everglades. I just want to bitch about it. Feel free to skip if you don’t care.
> 
> Everything about this cabin is a pain in the ass to try to place in real space. The reality is that no matter what it’s an exercise in fictional geography— there’s nowhere I could place it that would be both on the water and accessible by road. The Garmin puts it near Rocky Creek, which is somewhat equidistant between Miami and Naples, but is also essentially as remote as you could possibly get. This wouldn’t necessarily be a problem if we assume that in the show’s version of the universe that there’s a road that goes there, except that somehow they got city fire trucks down there, which is impossible no matter how you slice it. I decided to put the cabin on the river NE of Chokoloskee. That puts it less than 20 miles from Naples, near an airspace and couple fire stations but still out in the sticks. It does make the idea of Dexter making the trip there and back by boat seem even less possible than it already did, but at least there it seems slightly more plausible that there could be a road there and that fire trucks could reach it.
> 
> Jesus christ, s2, I like you but half this fic has felt like whack-a-mole with the plot holes…
> 
> Also, I’m not even going to pretend I know what I’m talking about when it comes to the helicopter shit in this chapter, but after hours of research this is what I landed on. I don’t see any reason the PD wouldn’t have handled this, especially since their helicopters could more than make the distance, but maybe it’s possible this would’ve ended up a Coast Guard thing instead. I don’t know. This is one of those situations where I’m a fic writer and I have no idea how this would actually work.

__

_The End of It  
_ _Setting: “The British Invasion”_

* * *

I’m a little drunk.

I realized that the second my ass met car cushion, but I sped out of my brother’s parking lot anyway, way too amped to care. My foot’s barely left the gas since. I need to get back to the station, need to find out what’s going on, if anything’s happened in the past nineteen minutes. My stomach is buzzing, heart tapping at the base of my jaw.

They found Doakes’ car, somewhere in the Everglades. That’s all I know. I don’t know how or where, or if they’ve got a bead on him. Lundy couldn’t stay on the line, and I haven’t tried to call him back. I’ll find out when I get there.

I floor it through a yellow light, switch lanes to pass a Prius and a silver 4Runner. I keep scanning for FHP, just in case, but I haven’t seen anyone out. I wonder how many of them have been dispatched to join the manhunt. I wonder if I’m gonna end up joining them.

I’ve been endlessly running scenarios in my head. What if we find him, what if we don’t. What he’s gonna do when he’s cornered. Doakes in a stand off, Matthews talking to him through a microphone in a squad car. Or LaGuerta. Or Lundy. Or me. What would I say? Could I say? What could any of us say? Would he let us arrest him? Would he fire on us? Would we fire on him? Then what? We kill him? What if he kills one of us?

Do I really believe he could do that? Turn a weapon on his own people?

The light for my turn is green when I reach it, and I wait for a couple cars to pass, then hook a left. I end up behind a patrol car, and I wave at his rearview and follow him to the station parking lot, where I pull into the first space I see in front. He keeps going, probably to park with the rest of the cruisers. The second I kill the engine I push back my hair, blow out a breath. My head’s still fucking muzzy. Not a lot, but enough. Too much fucking beer…

I grab my purse, pop open the door, step out onto pavement, slam it closed. Pause as my blood pressure drops at the change in elevation. As I puff out another breath it occurs to me that I should have my police slicker, if and when we join the manhunt in the Everglades, so I grab it out of my trunk. I slip it on and button it up as I walk across the parking lot.

I’m struck by how quiet it is. I’d had a thought that cops from all over the county might be coming here, but I guess it makes more sense they’d be out joining the rest of the hunting party. I wonder, as I open the station door and head across the lobby, if they’ve found their fox yet.

When I reach the elevator, I’m too impatient to take it, so I go for the stairs. Climb the steps two at a time.

And then I’m out. There are a lot more people up here: a bunch of feds, clumps of police. In the pen I spot Masuka, Ramos, a couple other guys from the task force, several uniforms. When I look into the briefing room I see Lundy with a few of his feds, but not Adams or Matthews. Maybe they’re en route; maybe they’re halfway to the Everglades. Either way, I don’t miss them.

Lundy notices me looking and gestures me in, so I move for the door. The other agents in the room don’t really look at me as I walk in, but it barely registers. The universe zeros down to Lundy. “Hey,” I say to him when I reach him.

“Hey,” he says. He switched the polo he was wearing earlier for a plaid button down, no tie, no blazer. But despite his hands being in his pockets, his posture is rigid.

I cross my arms, instantly internalizing his tension. I hope he can’t smell the alcohol on my breath. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“Nothing new yet. I’ve got teams converging around the car’s location. The choppers are still scanning the area.”

“Is that how they found his car? By air?”

“Yes.” He nods toward his computer. I follow him around the desk, and he removes one of his hands from his pocket to point at his screen. On it is a color, aerial picture of a red car, shot in low light. It’s parked off the side of a dirt road, half in the foliage. It looks filthy.

“How do you know it’s Doakes’?” I ask.

Lundy leans over the computer, exes out of the picture, clicks through a couple more before full-screening one. It’s a ground shot of the back of the car, its license plate illuminated by a flashlight.

“When the chopper called this in, I reached out to FHP. They dispatched a couple troopers out there and they took the pictures, checked out the car. The plate matches Doakes’ rental car.”

I stare at it, no response coming immediately to mind. That thrill I felt when I first got the news, when I was trying to get Dex to come down here with me, is gone, replaced with something else. It’s harder, stickier. Like all this was something slightly worse than inevitable.

I remember the security footage of Doakes that we found, him leaning against the hood as he pumped gas. His usual, mustachioed self. He left the car in a ditch.

After a beat I find my voice. “Where was it found?” I ask.

“Here,” he turns around and points at the map of south Florida that was pasted over one of the white boards the other day, “on a dirt road leading out of Plantation Island.” His finger taps the westernmost corner of the Everglades, under highway 41.

I look at the point on the map, then back at Lundy. I’m not familiar with that town. “Do we think Doakes is down that road?” I ask.

“That’s what the search team is going to determine.”

“And when they find him…” I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence. “You still believe there’s a chance Doakes is innocent?” I change questions.

Lundy looks at me, the answer already on his face. Nothing’s changed his mind between now and our conversation on the couch. Maybe the real question is whether or not it even makes a fucking difference at this point.

A cell phone ring preempts any response he may’ve been forming. On impulse, I start reaching for my purse, but it’s his phone that’s ringing. I notice I’m not the only one looking at him as he answers it. Every other conversation in the room has broken off.

“Lundy,” he says, and then his brows pinch, as some tinny voice I can’t understand responds. “A what?” he asks. More garbled sound bytes. Lundy’s other hand slips out of his pocket. “Do you have eyes on it?” Pause. “Have the troopers get in touch with me when they get there. I’m on my way.”

He clicks off, but doesn’t say anything. For a beat, he just looks at the map of south Florida.

“What?” I prompt.

Lundy looks at me, then exhales and presses a finger into his forehead, drops it before speaking. “That was one of our men in the air,” he says, to the room. “He just reported seeing a fireball coming out of the woods near our search grid.”

“A fireball?” Winter repeats. “Like an explosion?”

“He suspects so.”

We look around at each other uneasily.

“We don’t suspect this was an attack on one of us?” Timmerman asks.

Lundy shakes his head. “There were no units in that area.”

There’s no fucking way Doakes would booby trap a road to kill a bunch of cops.

Right?

“How big was the explosion?” I ask.

“Large enough that they saw it about two miles away.”

“Jesus,” I murmur.

“I’m going to try to commandeer a helicopter down there,” Lundy directs to the room. “Agents, I’d like the rest of you to remain here as more details come in, and to update our colleagues with Miami Metro. This is shaping up to be a long night.”

“Yes, sir,” several of his feds say. The rest nod.

Lundy starts heading for the door, and I follow him. “I’m going with you,” I say as we step out the open doors together.

He glances at me. “Of course,” he says.

“Thanks.” I’m glad he didn’t argue with me. There’s no way I could’ve sat here after hearing that.

Several pairs of eyes from the pen track us as we walk around it toward the back elevator. I avoid them. It occurs to me how it looks, me leaving alone with Lundy, without his usual entourage, now that everyone knows we’re together. I have the sudden, unpleasant memory of the rumors that were spreading about me when I first got into Homicide, that I was sucking off Matthews for the transfer. The situation’s changed, but the implication hasn’t. Only this time it’s true, and everyone knows it.

Batista’s absence now seems a little worse, despite him calling me a pet before. He was one of the only cops in the department who never seemed to put any stock in the rumors. Him and, strange as it is to remember, Doakes.

I put all that shit out of my mind, as the elevator doors open and we step inside. It doesn’t matter. Right now all that does is the fireball in the swamp and whatever the hell it means.

“What do you think it was?” I ask Lundy when the doors close, not bothering to qualify what ‘it’ is.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “But we’ll know soon. One way or the other.” He looks down at his phone and flips it open. “Hold on. I need to arrange our transport.”

I nod.

He dials and presses the phone to his ear, and I stuff my hands in my pockets, wondering about the explosion, about whatever it could mean. There’s less than no chance that it isn’t connected to Doakes, so then what the fuck did he do? Was he trying to do?

The doors open as Lundy talks into the phone. “Hello, Captain Salgado,” he says, stepping out, “this is Agent Lundy.”

I recognize the name. Salgado’s the head of county’s aviation unit, who’s been working with Adams on the patrols over the Everglades. For whatever reason I’m half surprised Lundy doesn’t have access to some FBI helicopter to land on the roof of the station and whisk us away, that it’ll be county police flying us down there instead of men in black.

I fall back into running scenarios as Lundy talks, wondering what could have exploded to make a fireball, let alone one large enough to see from miles away. He said it was outside the search grid. Doakes was special ops. He’d know how to make a bomb. He could’ve set it as a distraction, to draw the manhunt away, but he has to know that we’ve closed off 41, that even if he escapes the grid there’s nowhere for him to go.

So what then? Are we sure no one was over there? That Doakes didn’t just blow up a couple troopers?

Or something else? Someone?

I want to ask Lundy, even though I know he doesn’t know anymore than I do, but the second he hangs up he’s dialing again, this time Adams.

They talk as we walk out of the station and across the parking lot, but Lundy stops the conversation as we’re reaching his car. “Hold on,” he says, pulling the phone away to glance at its screen. “That’s Sergeant Mendez,” he says back into it. “I’ll call you back.” He hangs up and switches lines, answers, “Lundy.”

This time his conversation has my attention. I find myself balling my hands in my pockets as I hear the tinny voice coming from the receiver.

“A house?” Lundy says after about nine seconds. His brows knit again at the response, his usual placid professionalism rapidly dissolving into worry. “How far away are they?” Pause. “And they’re on the ground?” Longer pause. “Alright. Have whoever’s lead down there call me…” Pause. “Thanks.”

He clicks off and looks at me. We’re at least ten feet from the light of the nearest street lamp, and I can only barely make out his eyes.

“It was a house that exploded?” I guess.

“Yes. Or some kind of cabin.”

Is Doakes there? I want to ask, even though I know Mendez didn’t mention him. But I don’t have time to form the words anyway: his phone’s ringing again.

“This is Agent Lundy,” he answers.

My gaze is glued to him, as my insides start fizzing again.

“Have you seen any evidence of our suspect?”

The pause is brief.

“Have you seen any evidence of a body?”

My breath dies in my lungs at the word. I strain to hear the response, but can’t make shit out.

“I see,” he says after a beat. “Thank you. Please call me again when fire gets on site.” He clicks off.

I stare at him, still not quite able to breathe. “Is he dead?” I ask, when Lundy doesn’t immediately say anything.

“I don’t know,” he says. “The troopers only just arrived on scene, and the building is burning.”

“But have they found a body?”

He shakes his head.

For a beat neither of us say or do anything. We just stand here behind his black, FBI-issue SUV, mostly in the dark.

“Maybe it’s a diversion,” I suggest, not sure I believe it. Not sure what the point would be.

Lundy looks at me, but he doesn’t say anything. The shadows cut deep into his face. Make him seem very old.

“We need to go,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” I agree. Quietly.

We get into the car without saying anything else. Lundy buckles his seat belt and turns over the engine, pulls through the empty space in front of him. “You know how to get to Miami International?” he asks as he loops around the station.

“Yeah,” I say, throwing my purse on the ground.

“If you wouldn’t mind navigating?”

“Sure.”

He stops at the mouth of the lot, glances both ways, then pulls out onto the street, tripping his sirens as he turns. The cars on the road in front of us immediately slow down, start moving right, and we scream past them, Lundy’s foot lead on the gas. I tell him to make a left at the light, and he does, building speed again as we head for the interstate. We don’t say anything else to each other. The second we reach i395, he starts reaching for his phone.

“Would you dial Adams?” he asks, pulling it out of a cup holder in the center compartment. “The third number down in history. 202 area code.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, taking it. Once I’ve got it dialed I hand it back to him.

I look out the window as he updates the director, at all the cars getting out of our way, lines of red lights in the dark. Any haze from the alcohol is long gone. Dread is clouding up my chest now, trickling through my guts, down my fingertips, the soles of my feet. Because this is the end. Because I know, somehow, that this isn’t some distraction. Because that doesn’t make any fucking sense.

And for as much as I don’t know exactly what we’re rushing towards, some part of me suspects it.

Because there’s really only one answer. Only one way this was ever gonna go.

And maybe I should’ve fucking seen it coming.


	74. Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates from here on out are probably going to be more sporadic. I'm not sure if the next chapter is ready for Thursday or not. Either way the fic's almost over and I'm trying to figure out where to end it. Thanks for sticking with me.

__

_Dead  
_ _Setting: “The British Invasion”_

* * *

Doakes is dead.

I stick the cigarette in my mouth as I trudge down to the lakeside, where I step over some foliage to get to a log. Ignoring the likelihood that my ass is gonna get covered by grime and bugs, or that a gator might take a chunk out of it, I take a seat, lean down to stick the paper cup on the ground, then sit up straight. Spark the lighter, press the flame to the cigarette. Breathe in. Slowly blow out the smoke as I pull my foot up against the log.

They’re still recovering him, by bits and pieces. I walked away after they fished out his charred head and one-armed trunk. The sight of it is still burned into my eyes. And the smell: like fucking barbecue and bog water. Frankly, the taste of the cigarette is a relief.

I take another hit.

I know it’s Doakes. The feds are still pretending the manhunt’s on, that Doakes is off fucking… hiding in the bushes or making a beeline for the border or some other equally plausible theory, but, back on fucking Earth, I don’t need to wait for dental records. Doakes is dead. I knew it the second I saw the fire from the helicopter, maybe even before then. His final act was a thumb in the nose— the big bad bogeyman blew himself up. Rather than catch him, we’re left to ziplock his meat into bags, and to ask ourselves how or if we could’ve prevented this.

Brian Moser, the sequel.

I can still see him fucking dangling there, his blood pooled, half-frozen, in a goddamn turkey tray. The outlines of his ribs pressed against his shirt. How small he seemed to be, in that moment.

The cigarette crackles as I suck on it. Around me, insects and birds buzz and chirp, the breeze rustles the leaves, the heat pulls the smell of mud and rotting lake shit out of the water. But above everything is the stench of the burn-out cabin, the hum of voices on the other side of the tree line. It’d be impossible to pretend I’m not where I am, to let it fade to background noise. Not that I’m trying.

It feels different this time. I thought it’d be a relief when we found his body, but it isn’t, not completely. There’s something else, a slight ache in my gut. I’m not sure it’s strong enough to call it grief.

Mostly, I don’t feel anything.

I adjust my seat on the log, prop my hand holding the cigarette against my knee.

The shack, or whatever it was, burned down overnight, as we all stood by. It wasn’t until around three in the morning that the firemen were able to fully put it out, and by then the structure was a heap of rubble. It’s finally cool enough now that the techs have been able to start going through it, and I can only imagine what they might find. Doakes was probably hiding here since he disappeared. I wonder if this was a spot of convenience for him, or if he came here because he felt safe, because this is where he was killing people for years. Did he drug them and stick them in his trunk so he could drive them all the way out here, kill them in the middle of nowhere so no one could hear them scream?

No.

I slowly put the stick back between my teeth.

That doesn’t make sense. Kill them here, but dump them all the way out in Bay Harbor? He brought his boat all this way, back and forth along the tip of Florida? Why not feed his victims to the alligators instead? Dump them on the west side of the state? But, if not, how the hell did he end up out here anyway, in this particular cabin in the woods?

Not that anything has made sense in awhile. Batista was arrested for raping the same walking corpse my brother was cheating on Rita with. I’m fucking the chief of the FBI’s Serial Crime Unit. My ex strangled and drugged me, was planning to chop me into little pieces and probably drop me off on the station’s doorstep wrapped in Christmas ribbon. Doakes may’ve been working with him. Doakes was a serial killer.

Doakes is dead.

I start to laugh. It’s low and throaty. Ugly. Whatever that feeling in my gut is, it gets a little worse. I don’t try to put a label on it.

Doakes is fucking _dead._ And they’re out there on pop-up boats, fishing his body parts from the water. It’s like some terrible, cosmic joke, that he’d end up in pieces too.

Where the fuck do we go from here? Is it over now, simple as that? Doakes is gone, as abruptly as Moser was. No resolution. No explanation. No trial. Nothing except the clean up. We just start filing it all away? The department pretends we never had a serial killer on the payroll? That in a squad full of Homicide cops, no one had an inkling as to what he was doing?

“Hey.”

I look up and over to see Lundy standing a couple yards behind me and the brush. “Hey,” I reply.

“Sorry to intrude,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.” I take another pull on the cigarette. I’ve never smoked in front of him before.

“I can leave you, if you still wanted to be alone.”

I trace the lines of his face as I puff on the stick. There’s not a trace of the usual easy breeziness in his expression. He looks weathered, and a little sad. “No,” I say. “I’d rather you stayed.”

I realize as I say that I’m not just talking about now. Our case died all over the lake, and I don’t know what that means for us. For whatever this thing is that we’re doing. Whatever we want it to be.

He nods. “I’m happy to,” he says.

I don’t know if he caught my second meaning, but I don’t say anything about it as he crunches down into and over the brush to get to me. Instead I scoot a little further down the log and lean over to squish the cigarette into the cup I brought with me. Suddenly get hit with a memory.

Doakes was pissed at me. He’d found a butt I’d left in the parking lot outside the hospital where I found Tony Tucci, was waving the bag in my face. Fucking stupid mistake, contaminating the scene with my cigarette, and he saved my ass. LaGuerta would’ve skinned me for it, and he never told her.

I clear my throat as I straighten up, and I look at Lundy as he sits beside me.

“What a mess,” he says.

“Yeah,” I agree, still thinking about Doakes and the cigarette butt.

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I repeat. And it’s true: I am fine. Weirdly fine, for having just seen my ex-partner’s corpse blown apart and toasted like a marshmallow. “Somehow this didn’t…” I search for an end to the sentence, “surprise me. That it ended up like this.”

His brows are furrowed. “I’ll be honest, I hadn’t pegged Doakes as the suicidal type.”

“I thought the same thing about Brian Moser.” I shrug. “But I guess you can’t predict what an animal’s gonna do when they’re cornered.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat as he looks at me. “No, I guess you really can’t,” he says finally. But I get the impression he wanted to say something else.

I want to prompt him for whatever it was, assuming I didn’t just imagine it, but his gaze goes out to the lake, and he doesn’t say anything else, so I don’t say anything either. I feel very tired suddenly, and I miss my cigarette. In its absence, I reach for Lundy’s hand. He glances at me as I take it, gives my palm a squeeze, and we both go back to looking at the lake without talking. I think about moving closer, leaning against him, but don’t. We’re too visible, and it wouldn’t be appropriate.

As we sit here rubbing each other’s hands, the long-ass night finally catches up to me. Neither of us have slept, though we spent the night mostly standing around watching the cabin burn, half-heartedly strategizing about where else to look for Doakes on the remote possibility that this was a distraction. While I was watching the sunrise over the lake, it occurred to me that this was the second time in a week we’ve been up all night over this. Now that it’s over, when I finally get my weekend I’ll probably sleep all the way through it, then call in so I can sleep some more.

And when I come back, Doakes will be gone. Because he’s dead. Because he blew himself up. Someone else is gonna end up sitting at his desk, sooner or later.

I wonder if anyone’s called LaGuerta yet.

“Do you—” I start to say, but I stop at the sound of crunching behind us. We both turn to see Aptekar, one of Lundy’s feds, walking toward us, the light from the lake and the cars bouncing off his sunglasses.

“Sir, Officer,” he says politely, “they’ve found something you’re going to want to see.”

“What?” Lundy asks.

“Another body, sir.”

Lundy and I exchange looks. Something cold slides down my guts.

We both stand up, and I lean down to grab the cup, then follow Lundy back up to Aptekar, who’s standing there with military posture. “Details?” Lundy asks when we reach him.

“The techs were moving aside the rubble from one of the walls and found the remains,” he replies as we start walking in the direction of the cabin. “It looks like it was in the corner of the room when the structure exploded. They haven’t started removing it yet.”

That’s just fucking great.

When we round the tree line, the smoking shit stack comes immediately into view, along with half the LE personnel from Monroe and Miami-Dade. They’re still dragging this part of the lake. I spot Dexter and Masuka among a knot of techs standing near one corner of the former cabin. Three guesses as to what they’re all looking at.

Unsurprisingly, Aptekar takes us there. The smell of ash, burnt metal, and chemicals gets stronger. And under it, unfortunately, so does the scent of cooked meat.

“What’ve we got?” Lundy asks.

“Looks like just one body so far,” Masuka says, pointing about a yard from his feet. He’s standing in the rubble.

I shove the cup and my hands in my slicker’s pockets as I stop next to my brother, who’s staring silently where Masuka’s pointing. I look that way too. It takes a second for me to spot it, among all the other burnt crap on and around it.

The first thing I see is the skull: grinning at me upside down, bits of hair and black, charred flesh seared to bone. It’s disconnected from the rest of the body at the neck, out of which the spine of a vertebrae juts skyward. When I follow it down I realize it seems to be sunk into the stomach of the trunk, which isn’t connected to any limbs. As I scan the rest of the body, I find arms with arms, legs with legs, all piled, unnaturally, on top of each other. And that they’re covered with weird, black, melted shit. And flies.

“That melted shit,” I say quietly. “Were they trash bags?”

A few people glance at me. The rest are still looking at the body parts. “That’s my guess,” Masuka says.

I open my mouth to say something, but I’ve got nothing. There was a chopped-up, bagged body in here, that Doakes was staying with. He couldn’t go out without killing and dismembering at least one more person. Are we gonna find another fucking blood slide melted to a table, or taped, like a fucking mezuzah, to the door frame that got blasted into the lake?

“Can you tell us anything?” Lundy asks.

Masuka shrugs. “Not really. We need to get it out and cleaned up, give Yamada a call. Once it’s out on a gurney, I could tell you more, though…” He grunts as he moves a little closer to the body, which he then points at with a thin, wooden pole. “It was probably here for some time before the cabin exploded. I’m seeing maggots in here, seared into the flesh from the fire.” His stick hovers above the truncated neck, into eye sockets, then along what’s left of the chest.

Fucking lovely.

Lundy nods, his face unreadable. “Does it look like the remains of one person?”

He nods back. “Far as I can tell. But we’re not done digging through all this shit yet.”

“So all this time he was out here camping with a fucking corpse?” I ask.

I meant it rhetorically, but, “I doubt we’ll be able to make a concrete TOD, but it’s very possible, yeah,” Masuka replies anyway.

“That’s just fucking great,” I say, feeling a pulse of revulsion. I’m glad I never wasted my energy believing in Doakes. I find myself glancing at Lundy, but his eyes are still on our newest body. When I look further left I find Dexter looking at me. Under his cap, his face is a mask.

“Have we found anymore of the other body yet?” Lundy asks after a couple beats pass in silence.

“Nope.” Masuka shakes his head.

Lundy nods, then exhales and reaches into his pocket. “I’ll give the Director the update,” he says as he turns and walks away, dialing his phone.

Masuka adjusts his footing on the rubble, claps his hands together. “Alright, let’s start getting it out of here,” he says to the techs, who nod and start scurrying into motion. Aptekar excuses himself as Masuka reaches for the skull, walks back in the direction of the lake. Maybe he’s squeamish.

And then it’s just Dexter and me, standing here watching the techs photographing, lifting, and rebagging the remains. One of them has what looks like a couple dozen flags stored in the back of her wellies, and she pulls them out and sticks them wherever there used to be a body part, then takes another picture as they go.

“Was this really the plan?” I ask as we watch the techs try to separate one of the legs from where it’s stuck to the floor. “Over ten years a serial killer and three months of federal investigation, and he comes out to the middle of the bumfucking swamp, murders someone, chops them into pieces, then blows himself up? Or did he just see the helicopters overhead and the writing on the wall and decide this was it? Was it always going to end like this?”

Dexter’s slow to look at me. “I don’t know,” he says. He’s seemed slightly dazed since he got here, like the beer never quite wore off.

I glance from him to the techs, who’ve successfully dislodged the leg. “Good fucking riddance,” I mutter as they bag it. I wish I’d brought another cigarette with me.

My brother doesn’t respond, not that I expected him to. Yet, despite his silence, I find I’m glad he’s here. Like he was in Moser’s freezer, the one part of the universe with any real structural integrity.

Because it’s over. Because Doakes is dead.

And there’s nothing left to do, except wait for the all clear.


	75. Creepy-Ass Portrait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is walking the canonical tight rope, but let’s be real again: Doakes being found at Jimenez’s cabin was a major plot hole. This was something that occurred to me when I first watched s2, and is even more apparent to me now. I wanted to address it.
> 
> Also, in terms of the Lila stuff, I’m not convinced she was telling the truth to Dexter in her story about Marco in 2x05. I decided to roll with it.

__

_Creepy-Ass Portrait  
_ _Setting: “The British Invasion”_

* * *

Santos Jimenez…

Who are you, where are you, and how and why did Doakes come to murder some random shitstain in the cabin you were renting?

My chin slowly sinks onto my hand as I wait for NCIC to load. My computer’s running like a fucking tranquilized snail today. As I wait, I start the mental rewind, still processing what just happened.

Forty minutes ago, Matthews, flanked by three cops from IAD and one member of the brass, walked into Homicide and closed the doors. They didn’t come for an update on the investigation, or to offer their condolences. Instead the sergeant from IAD, Sue Bower, was unequivocally confirming the rumor that her department was opening an internal review on ours. Whether or not IAD and the directors of MMPD really believe any of us were complicit with Doakes, or so much as entertained a thought as to what he was doing, I don’t know. The fact is that the media received word of Doakes’ identification only a little after we did. I can only imagine that they want to get ahead of whatever’s coming, as the reporters drift further from Doakes and start pointing fingers at the department. Fucking Brian Moser all over again, though this time it won’t be my face on the TV.

I glance in the direction of LaGuerta’s empty office. If they’re hunting for a scapegoat, she’s the one they’ll end up fillet-a-fucking.

She left shortly after Lundy delivered the news to her about Doakes, without saying a word to anyone. I watched her pass from my seat here. She looked heartbroken. Lundy told me over lunch that when he went to tell her, she had stacks of files everywhere, that she was still desperately trying to save her old partner.

I feel sorry for her. I can’t help empathizing with her position, after what happened to me. If I thought there was any chance in hell she’d want to hear from me, I’d call her, ask if she wanted to talk.

My sympathies aside, I wonder if she knows about IAD’s investigation. Matthews hates her almost as much as she hates him, but I doubt even he’d be cold enough to throw her to the wolves right now. Of course, I wouldn’t exactly be surprised if he did.

My attention returns to my screen, and I realize NCIC is up. Letting thoughts of LaGuerta go, I drop my hand to type in Jimenez’s name, then let it slide off the edge of the desk as I start scrolling.

I already know Jimenez is Colombian, that he’s lived in Naples for a little over a decade, and that he’s been operating a bar called “The Swamp” for the past eight years. I also know he hasn’t shown up to open his bar, and no one’s heard from him, in a little over a week now. He fell off the face of the planet the same day Doakes did. I don’t have an iota of doubt that it’s not a coincidence, but if Doakes did kill him, why was it Jose Garza’s body we found dismembered and melted into garbage bags in that cabin and not his? And why would Doakes go after him at all?

Everything recent in NCIC is just traffic violations, but further down it gets much, much more interesting: a quadruple homicide in 1973, right here in Miami, bookended by a bunch of narcotics charges. Interest caught, I grab and look up the case number, but my query gets bounced. Apparently the record hasn’t been digitized. Brows creasing, I go back to NCIC and look for whatever it’s got, where I find a note alluding to Jimenez having gone into WITSEC, but not much else. Maybe they censored the file.

I lean back, considering calling down to records, but I can’t imagine it means anything. How would Doakes have found out about something that happened 34 years ago? Without a case file in the system? He was in middle school…

For curiosity’s sake, I’m curious about the quadruple homicide, but I let it go, reorient on the narcotics charges instead. Most of them were related to cocaine, which was the same shit on Garza’s record. By itself it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it’s a little weird to me that a guy that went into witness protection returned to Florida from wherever he was relocated, took back his name, and coincidentally seems to have been murdered right along with a fellow coke dealer. Did Jimenez come back to reinvest in the coke business? The particulate cocaine we found melted all over the cabin debris could just as easily have been his instead of Garza’s.

But even if it was, how the hell did that put him on Doakes’ radar? Or, if he was murdered as collateral, what put Garza on Doakes’ short list? Convenience? He just happened onto their operation in the middle of the Everglades, decided to kill them to squat in the cabin? He didn’t? He went there specifically to kill them? Why? How? Both of them were operating on the east side of the state, way beyond the sphere of this department. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense. None of it makes any fucking sense.

I find myself rubbing my temple.

IAD and WPLG are gearing up to run our department through an emulsifier. Doakes lit up a fucking propane tank and blew himself to smithereens rather than be caught. We’ve got some dead guy and another missing-but-probably-dead guy. At this point we’re down our lieutenant, our sergeant, and our most senior detective. Everything’s a hot fucking mess.

And it’s 5:49.

I rock back onto my desk, promptly start worrying a thumbnail. Maybe we should pull in Juan Alonso, the owner of the cabin, see if he might know anymore than just Jimenez’s name. But even if we plopped him down and he immediately admitted that Jimenez was running half the Colombian drug trade through his port in the Everglades, that wouldn’t get us any closer to confirming whether or not Doakes killed him.

Maybe we should instead pull in one of Garza’s associates, see if they know anything. Not that they’d have any reason to talk to us. Maybe rope in the narc cops over in Naples, see if they’ve ever heard of Jimenez.

Of course, none of it means anything if we never find his body.

Feeling frustrated and somewhat cockblocked by WITSEC, I get up, stretch, and glance around. Dexter left shortly before IAD arrived, looking typically preoccupied, but Masuka’s still back there digging through all the crap they pulled from the cabin. Lundy’s gone too, along with the rest of the feds. They’ve all flown back to the field office. Cook and Sanchez are sitting in the briefing room. Ramos, Soderquist, and Yale are all at their desks. Weiss went home early.

Batista’s absence hits me again. I miss him and his hat. Lundy said he called him about Doakes’ ID shortly after he told LaGuerta, that he didn’t take the news particularly hard, one way or the other. He and Doakes never really got along.

And I still feel weird about it. Even knowing he spent the last few days of his life holed up in that cabin with a dismembered, decomposing corpse, I still can’t quite separate Doakes from how I knew him, and from Lundy’s unwavering belief in him.

I decide it’s time to go. That I’m done for the day.

It doesn’t take long to wrap up. I update Ramos on what I found on Jimenez, who agrees that the quadruple probably didn’t have anything to do with why Doakes killed him— _if_ Doakes killed him, though he doesn’t disagree with my feeling that he’s dead. He also agrees that we should call the Naples PD tomorrow. I tell him I’ll do it first thing. Then I grab my shit, wave goodbye to everyone, and ride the elevator down.

The whole trip to my car I’m thinking about IAD again, but my thoughts shift from the department to Batista’s case. To Lila. I wonder if that bitch really got the message. I was too tired to stop by her place to bully her some more yesterday, after we finally got back from the Everglades, but today’s a new day, and I’m awake and pissed off, and I’ve got time. Lundy said he might not be home until 9.

I start taking my top down. By the time it’s fully retracted the decision’s made. I’m gonna pay her another, friendly visit. The anger seems to dissolve into a sick sort of pleasure as I get onto US-1 and start heading north.

The heat and the breeze feel good. I find myself thinking about Lundy and Lake Ipperwash, ice fishing up in Canada. I don’t remember the last time I saw ice that wasn’t cubed. I think about some cabin on a snowy hill with a wood-burning stove, fucking on a couch under a wool blanket. When I googled the weather up there it said it was 37 degrees. I’ll get there and fucking freeze to death. The snow will do to me what my psychotic ex could not.

And then I’m pulling up outside Lila’s rathole of a complex, and I stop thinking about it. I reach for the car door handle. It takes a second to convince myself to unclip my gun and badge from my pants as I cross the street, but I do, stuff them in my purse along with my car keys. Head up the steps and into the building.

Once again, I find the door wide open, and I cross my arms as I step inside, glance around. It irritates me that I can’t tell if anything looks any different. The place is still a garbage heap, and I can’t see any bags. Just wall-to-wall creepy-ass sculptures, fabric, and art supplies. The air still smells vaguely like smoke and fresh paint, and way too much perfume.

“Debra,” I hear behind me, and I turn to see Lila standing beside an open cabinet, half hidden by a curtain, “you’re back.” She shuts it with a snap.

“And you’re st— _jesus,_ ” I cut myself off, as my gaze slides right. “What the fuck?”

“Do you like it?” Lila asks. Without a trace of challance. Or irony.

I’m utterly flabbergasted. Directly beside her is a 7’-tall canvas with a portrait of my brother’s face on it. He looks… I don’t know. Angry? Psycho?

I just stare at it, at his expression, unable to form a thought. I’m 100% certain this didn’t exist on Monday.

“What the _fuck_?” I repeat.

“I take that as a yes?” she asks airily. “He leaves quite an impression, doesn’t he?”

I tear my eyes away from the painting to look at her. She’s smiling, like a horse that just ate a particularly satisfying carrot. “This,” I say, pointing at it, “is fucking batshit.”

The smile dies. It never reached her eyes to begin with. She sniffs. “So have you just come to insult my art or were you going to make another go at intimidating me out of my home?”

Another pang of annoyance. “I don’t need to intimidate you, Lila,” I say, flatly. “Do you honestly believe I haven’t done exactly what I said I’ve done?”

“Honestly…” She shrugs. “No.”

“Really?” I snort, somehow still amazed by her temerity. “I know your real name is Lila West,” I tell her. “I know your immigration status. And, hey,” this I enjoy, as I take a step closer to her and lower my voice, conspiratorially, “I reached out to the police in Jolly ‘Ole. Turns out, you’ve got a record. Popped a couple times for meth. Caught setting train tracks on fire. And this guy, Marco Eckland, he’s got a restraining order out on you because you threatened to break into his house and burn him alive.” I’m smiling now, as her face drains of the rest of its color, dropping a shade below old oatmeal. “How the fuck did you _get_ a green card anyway?”

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she hisses.

“You know, I think I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” I say, gesturing toward my head, then folding my hand back under my arm. “You’re fucking pathetic.” I shake my head. “Hiding here with a fake name, taking roofies and filing bullshit rape charges just to fuck up a good man’s life. You know he has a daughter? Or does that even matter to you?”

She doesn’t speak, but I can feel her seething.

“If you weren’t such a fuck up I’d almost feel sorry for you.”

She laughs, hollowly. “As if I’d ever care for your sympathy, Mrs. Ice Truck Killer. By the way, how _was_ he in the sack? I always meant to ask.”

I ignore the bait. “I want you out of Miami,” I say. “Drop the charges against Angel, and move your slag ass on. There’s nothing here for you. That,” I point at the painting, “whatever messed-up fucking fantasy you’ve concocted for yourself, it isn’t real. It doesn’t exist. And clearly none of this shit means anything to you either.” I gesture around the studio, as a thought dawns on me. “You set that fire here yourself, didn’t you?” I ask as I think it. “To get Dexter’s attention?”

She stays silent for awhile. She looks so angry I half wonder if she’s gonna explode, or maybe try to set _me_ on fire, burn us all along with the loft and the sculptures and that creepy-ass portrait. “Get out,” she says finally.

“Fine,” I say, “but I’ll be back.”

Feeling satisfied, I turn and head for the door, trying to avoid looking at the painting as I go. It’s fucking creeping me out.

“You really don’t know, do you?” Lila’s voice stops me. There’s a strange note to it. “You don’t have any idea who your brother really is?”

I look back at her. She’s moved in front of the painting, is now somewhat framed by it. Her arms are hugging her waist, but that smug expression is starting to crawl back up her face. “I…” I start to say, looking between her and that stupid canvas. “What the fuck does that even mean?” I ask, but I follow that up before she can speak, “You know what? I…” I wave my hand, “don’t care. I don’t want to hear it.”

Shaking my head, I walk out of the studio. Lila doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t come after me, and within a couple seconds I’m back outside. It’s not much warmer out here than it was in there. Exhaling, I finally uncross my arms as I walk back toward my car. When I reach it, I toss my purse onto the passenger-side seat, then open the door and plop onto my seat.

The painting is still burned into my eyes. It’s like a window into the demented shitwash of her mind. Whatever she was trying to express in it, is that how she sees Dexter? How she wishes he was?

Another thought: is my serial fuckwit of a brother still in contact with her? I want to doubt it, but he was stupid enough to get involved with her to begin with, so who the hell knows. I almost pull out my phone to call him and ask, but something checks me. Maybe the fact that he could tell me, but I wouldn’t necessarily believe him.

I put my phone back in the cup holder. Almost exchange it for a cigarette. Don’t. Instead look back toward Lila’s building, half-hoping to see her fleeing with a suitcase. I think she finally got my message.

But a minute passes, and then another, and she doesn’t come out. I lose interest. And I’m getting baked into my seat.

So I turn over the engine and pull back into the street. I’ve still got time until Lundy comes back. Time enough for a run and a long, hot shower.


	76. Desperate

__

_Desperate  
_ _Setting:_ _“The British Invasion”_

* * *

( _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ )

God fucking fuck.

( _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ )

I jam my key into the lock on my front door, swing it open, draw it closed with me as I walk inside. Drop the parka and the rest of the winter crap on the ground. Then I go to my bedroom, toss my purse on the mattress that’s still sitting on the floor without a frame, and just sort of freeze in place, as I push my hands through my hair.

“ _Fuck,_ ” I whisper.

Lundy’s going. It’s been a day since Doakes was IDed and he’s already being whisked away, to the other side of the country, to hunt some other monster. He called me to his place to break this off, to tell me goodbye.

But I can’t. It’s too soon. I’m not ready. He can’t leave.

He can’t go.

I feel sick. Terrified, like the ground’s slowly pulling away from my feet.

I almost told him I loved him. Was a second away, but he heard it anyway, in my voice. I could see it in his face. He didn’t reciprocate. I didn’t care.

I just moved into this place.

Just got into Homicide. It’s all I’ve wanted, all I’ve worked for for the past ten years.

Just survived. Finally crawled up from the bottom of that hole, managed to take a breath again.

It doesn’t seem to matter. None of it does.

Because it’s not just that I love him. I can feel it, that thing with claws beneath it. Desperation. It feels now like the only thing holding me together. Like without him I’ll fall back to pieces. Like these last few months will evaporate. Like I know it for certain.

I can already feel him again. His breath against my ear, arms tightening around my throat.

The taste of menthol. It overpowered the champagne, crawled up my nose.

Sometimes I still wonder if he put something in it. If that’d be worse than if he didn’t.

( _So desperate to fall in love_ )

( _I can_ _’t I can’t_ )

I grab my suitcase from the closet, start piling shit inside. My chest is tight, wound like a spring.

I haven’t called LaGuerta yet, haven’t figured out what to say. We’re all getting our weekends tomorrow anyway. I don’t know how she’s going to respond, if it’s going to matter to her, if she’ll let me go without me having to quit. Haven’t called Dexter. Haven’t called anyone. The fuck would I say?

It won’t be for forever. Maybe just a couple weeks. Maybe not. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when I get to Oregon.

Somehow.

I don’t know.

I haven’t been that long away from Miami since I was in college. Or anywhere close to that far. I’ve never been to the west coast.

It doesn’t matter. I can’t let him go. I can’t. Can’t go back to how it was. I’d throw it all away never to have to feel it again. To never have to have another nightmare, to never see him in another shadow. To never wake up in that trunk again.

To never feel him again.

( _So desperate_ )

( _So desperate_ )

( _I can_ _’t_ )

Shirts, underwear, bras, socks, pants, shoes. I run out of space, start filling a duffel. Go to grab toiletries. Random crap. I leave the nonessentials. I’ll have to come back anyway, after we settle in Oregon. I’ll have to take care of what I’m leaving behind here.

Because that’s what I’m doing. I feel like I’ve lost my mind.

And it doesn’t seem to matter.

I can practically hear Dr. Wheeler, the department shrink, asking me if I’m going to hide, if I’m ever going to stop running. If I can’t somehow slay my demon. But he’s already dead. He took that away from me, and he’ll haunt me forever.

The sun is going down, and I find myself standing in my kitchen. All the shit I can think to pack is packed. I’m looking at my shield, strangely transfixed by it, like I’ve never seen it before. The fan whirs overhead. I can hear Lundy’s voice.

_“It’s more than that to you.”_

Deep down I know this is wrong. But somehow the thought of Lundy leaving without me, of never seeing him again, seems worse.

I set my badge down, reach for my phone. Dial him. It rings five times. I get afraid that maybe he already left.

“Hello, Debra,” he finally answers.

“Did you get the ticket?” I ask.

There’s a long pause. “Yes,” he says.

“Good.” I’m staring at my badge.

“Debra,” he starts, then exhales, “are you sure you want to do this? Uproot your life?”

“I…” I lose track of my response. No, I don’t. I want to ask him to stay, to get a transfer to the field office over in Miramar and stay in his apartment, or move in with me. I don’t want to have to choose.

But I can’t suggest it. He has to offer. He has to want to.

“It’ll be okay if you don’t,” he says, when I don’t go on.

“No, it won’t be,” I say. “Do you really want this to end? Right here? Today? Like this?”

Another pause. “No,” he admits eventually.

The relief I feel is a little painful too. “Then I’ll see you at the airport. What time’s the flight?”

“9:30.”

“What airline?”

“American.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Debra…”

And then nothing.

“What?” I prompt.

It takes him another second to reply. Then, “I’ll see you when you get here.”

“You will.”

I hang up. Exhale. Set the phone on the counter too, next to my badge.

I still feel fucking sick. And I’ve got to go soon.

I poke my badge again, then glance around my apartment. It’s still not really furnished. I haven’t had the time. I guess it’s just as well. Do I break the lease? Keep it? Move the rest of my shit?

Am I leaving Miami Metro? To do what? Follow Lundy? For how long?

I can’t think about it anymore. I have to go. I have to change.

And he’s mocking me again, as I walk back toward my bedroom. I can hear my own screams, my own voice. As it finally occurred to me. As I finally realized what was happening to me. As he locked me in that fucking trunk. Too late.

( _So desperate to fall in love_ )

( _Desperate_ )

( _so fucking desperate_ )


	77. Where There's Smoke

__

_Where There_ _’s Smoke  
_ _Setting:_ _“The British Invasion”_

* * *

“Alright, have them call me when they’ve talked to the neighbors.”

“Roger that.”

“Thanks.”

I flip my phone closed. Squeeze it. I feel a little dazed.

I dragged my shit back into my place. Now it’s all sitting by the door: suitcases, bag, duffel, all the winter gear I picked up after visiting Lila. And it’s sinking in. I’m not going. That’s what just happened. What I decided.

But I don’t have time to think about it. I have to go. Rita’s kids are missing, and Dexter’s the one who told her to call me. He thinks this is real, and that’s enough to convince me it is.

So I grab my keys, gun, badge, wallet, shove them in my purse, head out the door. My stomach is twisting around and around, like it’s a bag of eels. I blow out a breath when I finally reach my car. Get in, shut the door, jam the key into the ignition and turn it over. Flip off the AC. Open my phone. Freeze.

Because I made a choice, but it’s not done yet. Right now, it’s still undoable. All I have to do is close the phone and get out of the car.

But I don’t. I dial. He takes his time answering. By the fifth ring I’m starting to wonder again if he’s already left. If, in the end, he made the decision for me.

But, “Hello,” he answers. Finally.

“Hey,” I say. And then I don’t say anything else. It gets stuck in my throat.

Several seconds pass. There’s a lot of background noise coming from his end. My car engine hums quietly in the foreground. And even though it’s warm in here, I feel a little cold.

“You’re not coming, are you?” he asks eventually. I don’t know how to interpret his tone.

“I can’t,” I reply. “I’m sorry, I can’t make the flight. There’s an emergency with Rita’s— Dexter’s girlfriend’s kids.”

“Is everything alright?”

“I don’t know.” Saying that seems to snap me out of it, and I finally start reversing out of my space. “They’re missing. Dexter told her to call me. I’ve got uniforms en route, but I don’t know anything else yet.”

“I hope everything’s alright.”

“Yeah,” I pull out onto the street, “me too.”

For another couple of seconds, it’s nothing but background noise between us. I slow for a red that turns green before I reach the stop, hit the gas again. My stomach is still writhing around. “I’m sorry,” I find myself saying again. “I’ll be on the next flight up.”

I hear his breath hit the receiver. And it’s at this precise moment that I realize it’s over. That I won’t be on the next flight up. That I’m not gonna end up on any other flight up. That I think he knows it too.

“Then that’s when I’ll see you,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. I take the turn onto 71st. A weight is dropping in my chest. “Call me when you land, alright?”

“I will.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yes. And I hope everything over there is alright.”

“I’ll let you know. Have a nice flight.”

“Thanks.” He pauses. “Goodbye, Debra.”

The weight hits home, crushes my guts. “Bye,” I say. Lamely.

He clicks off. I close the phone, drop it in my cup holder.

My eyes sting, and I swipe at them, sniff a bit. Exhale. Fuck.

That was it. That was the end of it. And he knew all along, from the start, that this was inevitable. And maybe, somewhere deep down, I knew it too. It’s just that I’m a fucking idiot, and I didn’t care, didn’t want to force my way out of the bubble I’d constructed around myself. I’m such a fucking idiot. I never learn.

“Dammit,” I whisper.

And all that desperation I felt, that drove me to dump half my life into bags and chase Lundy across the country, starts to drain away. The silence in my car sounds, suddenly, like a blanket smothering speakers.

Mercifully, the phone rings, before I can react to whatever that means.

“Morgan,” I answer.

“Hi, Deb, it’s Rita again.”

I clear my throat. “Hi, I’m on my way.” I adjust my grip on the wheel, as I forcibly realign my thoughts. “Have any officers arrived yet?”

“Yes, they just got here. But while I was waiting I went and talked to one of my neighbors, Sophie. She said she thought she saw Cody and Astor getting into a car with a woman she didn’t recognize.”

“What kind of car?” I ask automatically.

Rita pauses. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I didn’t ask.”

“That’s okay. The officers will take her statement.” I roll back what she said. “A woman you said?”

“Yes. Why?” Her voice peaks slightly. “Does that mean something to you?”

Something flutters through my stomach. The weight that was there has dissolved. “I don’t know,” I hedge, deciding not to mention the thought that just occurred to me. “Listen, sit by the phone, work with the officers. We’re going to figure this out, alright?”

“Deb, what’s going on?” Her tone climbs a little higher. “Do you have an idea who might have taken them?”

Dexter’s crazy-ass, horse-fucking ex-girlfriend. But I can’t really tell her that right now, for a bunch of reasons. “I might, but I don’t want to tell you in case I’m wrong.”

“Deb—”

I’m looking for a place to take a U-turn. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you again in fifteen minutes. I promise.”

“Fifteen minutes,” she repeats. I can all but see the fear that must be all over her face.

“Yes. Fifteen.”

“Okay.”

I shut the phone, toss it on the passenger-side seat. I can’t see anywhere to turn. There’s no one coming, and there’s no one behind me. Fuck it.

I flip a fucking bitch, in the middle of the road, across the double lines, like I used to do in my patrol unit. Instinctually reach toward my center console for a siren, though, of course, there isn’t one. Grab the stick instead. Hit the gas. Pray to god no one saw me.

It was Lila. I’m certain of it. And Dexter must have figured it out too. That’s why he told Rita to call me instead of 911. He probably knew I’d guess what happened.

Now that I think about it, I’m surprised Rita wasn’t the first person she went after, instead of Batista. But to take her kids? That’s another level of fucked up. And I’m fucking over it. She’s gone, tonight, even if I have to personally be the one to scrape her ass out of that apartment and load her into a trebuchet back to the motherland. In fact, I’d be fucking happy to do it.

As I drive south I debate calling for back up, weigh the hundredth of a percentage of a chance that I might be wrong about this. But the closer I get, the more certain I feel. I reach over for my phone, cursing my decision to toss it, finally get a hold of it. Call dispatch.

“This is Officer Debra Morgan with Miami Metro requesting back up at 565 Northwest 24th St,” I say. “Suspect is Lila Tournay, AKA Lila West. WFA. I suspect she’s kidnapped two minors.”

“Received. Are you at the scene?”

“I’m about three minutes away.”

“Received. Officers are en route.”

“Thank you.”

I kill the call, this time throw my phone in the cup holder. Step on the gas again. The three minutes turn into four, as I get stuck behind a light, but finally I get to the vaguely artsy, industrial hellscape where Lila’s chosen to nest. Pass block after block of abandoned, heavily graffitied buildings; converted warehouses; several clubs, sketchy-ass clothing resalers, a bodega. Make the turn onto 24th.

As I approach Lila’s building I realize immediately that something is wrong. There’s smoke coming out its side. A lot of it. A thought connects.

_Fire._

Fear ripples through me. My mouth goes dry.

That psychotic fucking bitch.

I screech to a stop, throw my car into park, am out before it’s really stopped. I start running toward the building, all thoughts narrowing to a single point: _fire_.

“Deb! Deb!”

I stop halfway up the steps, spot two small figures running in my direction.

“Oh thank christ,” I murmur. I get off the stairs and jog to meet them.

“Deb!” Astor latches onto me.

“Everything’s gonna be—” I start to say.

“It’s Dexter,” she cuts me off, tugging my sleeves. “He’s still inside.”

All the blood drains, instantly, from my extremities. “What?” I say.

“Lila. She set her place on fire. Dexter got us out but he couldn’t fit through the window. He hasn’t come out.”

“He’s still…” I look at the building, at the smoke spilling out of it. My thoughts boil away. “Okay,” I turn back to them, my mouth paper dry, “I’m going in. There are police coming. Wait for them here. Everything’s gonna be alright!” I don’t know whether that last was to her or to me. Halfway into it I was running for the building.

( _Dexter_ )

The handle isn’t hot when I reach it, and I yank it open, run down the hall. As I reach the corner I hear a crash. Round it to find Dexter lying in a flaming heap on the floor. He fell out of a hole in the wall. The smell of the smoke is choking out the air, and I can see the fire now.

( _jesus_ )

My heart is banging around my ribs as I run towards him, towards the heat, taking off my jacket as I go. I drop it on top of him when I reach him, start putting out the flames. Cough on the smoke. He’s wrapped in a rug or something.

“You’re gonna be okay,” I tell him as he unwraps himself from the rug to look up at me. “I got you.”

He doesn’t say anything in reply, but, abruptly, he lurches up. I help him to his feet, wrap my arm around his back. As we get the hell out of the hallway, I’m not sure if I’m keeping him upright or just hugging him close to me. Maybe a little of both. My heart is still trying to punch its way through my chest.

Finally we reach the door. I shove it open, and we stumble out. It’s a relief to get back outside, into open air. I suck in a breath. Note the sound of approaching sirens. Thank god.

“I need a second,” Dexter finally speaks, as the door shuts behind us. He makes it to the stairs, wheezing slightly, where he promptly collapses, still clutching that stupid rug around himself.

I fall down with him, feeling weak from the adrenaline. Exhale as I look at him. But before I can come up with anything to say, the kids are running towards us.

“Dexter! Dexter!”

They both fly into him, so hard he almost falls over.

“Are you alright?” Cody asks.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat and straightens up. “Yeah, I’m fine. See?” He smiles at them, still wheezing.

I lean back and watch them, somewhat unable to process what just happened. All I can seem to focus on is the rug: it smells fucking terrible. Like must and burnt dirt. It makes me think of what was left of the cabin in the Everglades.

“How’re you?” he asks.

“We’re fine.” Cody glances at Astor. “Right?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“I’m glad.” He reaches out from under the rug and ruffles Cody’s hair.

You would never know he was on fire less than two minutes ago, for how steady he is.

We all turn at the sound of sirens at our back, as several patrol units park haphazardly around the street. I glance at Dexter, wanting to say something to him, but the kids are here, and no words are coming immediately to mind. So instead all I’ve got is, “I’m gonna go talk to them.”

He nods, wheezes again.

I squeeze his shoulder, then get up. I’m still gripping my jacket. I don’t really know what to do with it, so I throw it over my arm.

“I’m Officer Morgan with Miami Metro,” I say to the uniforms as I approach them, automatically reaching for my badge— which I’m not wearing. Drop my arm again. “Has anyone radioed for fire?”

“Just did,” one of them says. We’re all standing now around the closest patrol unit. There are three other officers.

“I need you to radio for medical too.”

He nods and retreats into the car.

“We need to start evacuating the building,” I say. “The fire was started in unit 8 on the ground floor. For now I think it’s contained, but I don’t having a fucking clue for how much longer.”

“Were you in there?” one of the other guys asks. His name plate reads DeWitt.

“No, but I pulled my brother out of the hallway.” I point to him. Their eyes flick that way, then back to me.

“You don’t believe there was anyone else in the unit?” DeWitt asks.

“No. The fire was set deliberately, and the perpetrator fled.”

He nods.

“I’ve got to make a phone call. You’ll start getting people out of the building?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They break away from me, and I walk toward my car. I need my badge. And I need to call Rita. I don’t have my phone on me. Far away, I hear more sirens approaching.

When I get to my car, I grab my purse from off the passenger-side seat, pull out my badge, slip it over my neck. Take my keys out of the ignition. Then I grab my phone from out of the cup holder. Three missed calls. Rita. I hit redial.

“What’s going on?” she answers on the first ring.

“Everything’s alright,” I say. “I found them. They’re alright.”

“Oh thank god.” I can hear her relief. “Thank you, Deb. Where are they? Where are you? What happened?”

I pause, unsure how to phrase this. Decide not to sugar coat it. “Lila, Dexter’s ex, she took them. We’re outside her building.”

Silence on the other end.

“I don’t want you to freak out when you get here, so I’m just going to tell you what happened, okay?” I say.

“Okay.” The tension’s back.

“I don’t know all the details, but it seems like she lured Dexter here,” I’m guessing this as I say it. “She set her place on fire with them inside, but Dexter got them out. They’re fine.”

“Oh my god. Is Dexter—”

“He’s alright too. He busted his way out through the wall.” I would be somewhat proud of him for that, if he hadn’t been such a compulsive fuck-for-brains that he landed himself in this situation to begin with. “Everyone’s fine, Rita,” I repeat.

“Jesus,” she mutters. Sniffs. “Alright, uh, where are you?”

I give her the address, glancing behind me as several more cop cars show up, followed by a fire truck. As I talk I look past them, at the smoke coming out of the building, before my gaze travels down, lands on my brother. He’s still sitting on the steps, still wrapped in the rug, still talking to the kids. He’s smiling. If it wasn’t for his death grip on the rug, I’d almost think he was relaxed. Near him, firemen are starting to run the hose off the truck, as several more go into the building.

“I’m on my way,” Rita says. “Can you put Astor on?”

I blink. “Yeah, sure. Just give me a minute.”

“Alright.”

Still holding the phone to my ear, I shut my car door, then walk back to where my brother’s sitting. “Astor,” I say when I get there, holding it out for her. “It’s your mom.”

She looks up at me for a beat, then disentangles herself from my brother and takes my phone from me. “Hi, Mom,” she answers, starting to move away from us. Cody glances from her to Dexter to me, then gets up too, walks after her.

And then it’s just me and Dex and the sound of Astor’s voice and a bunch of city workers in the background. I look down at him, and he flashes me a tired sort of smile. I don’t return it immediately.

Jesus christ, what if that wall hadn’t given? What would I have done if I’d gotten there and he was on the other side? If I’d found that heavy industrial door locked shut?

I don’t want to think about it.

“Medical should be here soon,” I say, sitting next to him. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he nods, wheezes, “I’m fine.”

“You’re wheezing,” I say. It scares me a little to see him weak. I feel an intense, overwhelming need to protect him, to take him away or something, but right now there isn’t much I can do. Unable to think of anything else, I reach for his hand. He lets go of the rug so I can take it, squeezes it back. It’s a relief. I don’t know what I would’ve done if this had been worse.

“We’re gonna get her, Dex,” I tell him. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not,” he says. And the weird thing is that he really doesn’t seem to be.

I study him for a second. As delirious as he must be, he still seems solid, sitting there. He _feels_ solid. His grip on my hand is warm and strong.

But he’s still wheezing. And he’s covered in soot. And his eyebrows are singed.

Without really deciding to do it, I drop his hand, wrap him in a hug. It takes him a second to hug me back, but he does. The smell of the rug overpowers everything else as it partially envelopes me. It’s fucking horrible.

“You’re such a fucking moron,” I whisper to him, closing my eyes.

“Thanks,” he says.

I laugh. The adrenaline’s finally starting to ebb. And jesus but he reeks. And so do I. Smoke and burnt metal. Singed carpet fibers.

I open my eyes. “I’m going to kill that bitch.”

He doesn’t reply, but he stiffens slightly. I hug him a little tighter.

Seconds pass, half a minute. My heart slows back to normal. With every inhale I take in more of the rug’s scent and, under it, the smell of our sweat, burned shit. Around us, people are moving along the building. I can hear the firefighter’s hose going off and, more distantly, the crackling of the fire.

The sound of wheels attracts my attention, and I pull away to glance back. Feel a pang of relief. The ambulance is finally here. It’s pulling in along with another fire truck.

“Come on,” I say. “The ambulance is here.”

Dexter doesn’t argue with me, but he doesn’t say anything either. He just grunts as he pushes to his feet. I move to reach for his elbow, but he’s up before I can take it. I stick close to him as we walk over to the ambulance, which two MDFR guys are getting out of. They come over to us when they see us.

“He was in the building,” I tell them, without preamble.

The firefighters glance at my badge, then look at Dexter. “How’re you feeling, sir?”

“A little tired,” he says.

“Alright, why don’t you come with us?”

He nods and starts to follow them to the back of the ambulance. I want to keep hovering, but I know he’s safe with them, so I stay where I am. I feel better just seeing them talking to him. And as I stand here I start feeling the ground beneath my feet again, start really hearing what’s going on around me. I need to get control of the scene, go back to the uniforms and figure out what’s happening, make sure no one else is in the building, get the BOLO on Lila out. So I can find her and cut her fucking head off and put it on a pike.

I leave my brother to the EMTs and start walking back toward the building, where a couple other cops are talking. And as I go an image pops into my head: that creepy fucking portrait Lila painted. I realize it’s probably still in there, or it was. And I can’t help but imagine it burning away, down to nothing, along with every other ugly artifact of Lila’s life.

And then I see Lundy, his long, thin legs crossed as he sits at his gate, probably reading a book or something, his briefcase leaning against his seat. I have the thought that I’ll probably never see him again.

I push it all away, as I climb the steps up to the building. I’ve got work to do. Right now, nothing else matters.

Right now.


	78. Okay

__

_Okay  
_ _Setting:_ _“The British Invasion”_

* * *

I take a seat on the short concrete barrier separating city lawn from beach scrub, cross my legs, wrinkle my nose against the sun as I glance up at the sky. A thin cover of clouds has been building for the past couple hours, and I’m not sure yet if that means we’re getting rain. When I checked the news earlier, they weren’t sure either. At any rate, monsoon season is coming— whether it starts today, tomorrow, or next week —and I need new fucking windshield wipers…

Exhaling, I look back down and start unwrapping the foil from the breakfast burrito I picked up at the food truck across the street. Take a bite. Promptly scald the roof of my mouth. Curse.

As I alternate between blowing steam between my teeth and chewing, I glance at the road, at my car parked a couple yards from where I’m sitting, then left, out at the water, at beach goers strolling along the sand. A woman in a bikini holding a pair of flip flops in one hand and her partner’s in the other. Three kids chasing a guy in a baseball cap. Another guy hauling a surfboard toward the water. I wonder how many of them are tourists. After a beat a seagull lands on the barrier close to me, and I glower at it.

“Fuck off, shoo,” I say, waving my hand.

It doesn’t.

I give up the effort, take another bite of the burrito, cover it in my lap with my hands.

It’s about 11:30, Friday morning. It’s the first day off I’ve had in two weeks, and I’ve got Saturday and Sunday too. I’ve been looking forward to it since the all nighter I had to pull on Monday, but now that it’s here I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel like I have whiplash. Doakes is dead. The Bay Harbor investigation is closed. Come Monday I’ll probably be back on general rotation.

Dexter almost died in a fire last night. Lila seems to have evaporated— good news for Batista, if nothing else.

And Lundy’s gone.

I take another bite of the burrito, then crack open my Diet Coke, have a sip, set it on the grass. The stupid gull’s still watching me. I ignore it.

I left the search for Amy Winehouse last night to the other officers. The EMTs said Dexter didn’t need to go to the hospital, and my brother was heading towards his car when I intercepted him, confiscated his keys, and steered him back to my car so I could drive him home. Once I got him there he insisted I didn’t need to stay with him, so I didn’t. Instead I idled in front of his complex until he’d disappeared on the other side of the gate, still a little worried about him. Of course, when I called him this morning he was schmearing cream cheese on a bagel while he waited for Rita to pick him up, apparently unaffected by his brush with death. By the time we ended the call, I don’t know whether I was relieved or exasperated. Maybe a mix of both.

As for Lila, the detective at Violent Crimes who was assigned the case didn’t have anything to tell me this morning. I’m thinking about calling him again after lunch.

I’m thinking about calling Lundy too, but it’s three hours earlier there, and I don’t know what time his flight got in. It was probably a seven or eight-hour flight. Though, even if he answered, I don’t know how to say what I have to say. It’s sinking in now, that there’s the entire country between us. That I’m not gonna end up being able to leave, and, if I’m honest with myself, I never could’ve been.

That it’s over. That it has to be. Before it really _was_ anything.

But it doesn’t matter what I tell myself. I still feel fucking sick. I woke up nauseous about it, and the feeling hasn’t faded much, through the morning, through my twelve-mile run, through those phone calls, or through this burrito. Because I already miss him. And because I’m not sure how long I have before Brian Moser’s voice is gonna start crawling up my spine again.

And that fucking gull is waddling closer to me.

“Get the fuck away from me,” I hiss at it, waving my hand again. It stops moving, but doesn’t fly off.

I consider trying to find something to throw at it. As I reach into my purse, looking for a pen or something, my phone rings. Losing interest in the bird, I pull it out instead, drop the bag back onto the barrier beside me.

It’s Lundy.

My heart squeezes painfully. It takes me a second to flip the phone open.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey,” he says. It’s airless on his end of the line.

I glance at my watch. 11:41. “What time is it there?”

“8:41.”

My brows descend as I think about that. “What time did you land?”

“Around 3.”

I snort. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Apparently not.” I can picture his wry smile.

I smile too. Briefly. “So how’s Oregon?”

“I’ll tell you when I get out of the hotel.”

“That where you are now?”

“Yeah. I’m drinking that tea you bought me.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” I didn’t know anything about it when I bought it. When I tried it it just tasted like tea, but I trusted whatever the clerk told me. “I’m glad.”

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m eating a burrito next to the beach.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is, especially after this ratfuck of a week.”

He snorts softly. I imagine him sitting at a table with the tea I bought him steaming at his elbow. “Oh,” he says, “what happened last night?”

I exhale. “A fucking mess. Everything’s alright now, but…” I shake my head, recross my legs. Lundy waits out my pause. “Lila kidnapped Rita’s kids. Dexter figured out what happened and went there to confront her and get the kids back, but once he was inside she set the studio on fire and locked them in.” I extracted the story from my brother as I was driving him home last night.

“Jeez,” he mutters.

“Yeah. Dexter kicked the window panes out and the kids squeezed out between the frames, but he had to get out through the wall. I got there just as he launched himself through it.”

“Is he alright?”

“Yeah. Thank god.” I inhale. “The kids are alright too. And Lila’s fucking… gone, who knows where.”

“What about you?”

“I’m fine. It was…” I don’t want to think about it. “I’m glad he’s okay.”

“I am too. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

So am I. “It’s not like you could’ve known that everything was instantly going to go to hell.”

He murmurs an affirmative, as a breeze rolls across my skin. I fiddle with the burrito. I’ve lost all interest in it. “We should probably talk,” I say quietly, after a couple seconds.

“We should.”

Not wanting to be in public anymore, I get up. “Gimme a second,” I mutter as I look at my lunch, then at the gull that’s still sitting on the barrier. After a beat, I unwrap the burrito and toss it in its direction. It hops away, then dives after it. I turn, grab my soda off the turf, sling my bag over my shoulder, then start back toward my car, unlocking it as I go. Lundy still hasn’t said anything as I get inside, but I can feel him there, on the other end of the line. Still see him sitting with the tea, in some new, nondescript, FBI-standard-issued living room.

I shut the door, set the soda in the cup holder, crumple the tin foil and toss it on the other seat. Then I grab my keys out of my purse and stick them in the ignition so I can run the air. And for a second longer, after I get the air going, I just sit here, trying to figure out what to say. “You were right,” is what I come up with.

“About what?” he asks.

“About me. About… leaving.” I watch the gull rip apart my burrito. I don’t want to have to have this conversation. “My whole life’s here. My job, my friends, my brother. It doesn’t change how I feel about you, but—”

“I know,” he cuts me off, gently.

A lump is forming at the base of my throat. “I’m sorry. You were right. You kept wanting to talk about it, but I didn’t want to listen to you. I feel so fucking stupid about yesterday.”

“Don’t. And I don’t want you to have the wrong idea. I do have feelings for you. Strong feelings. But…” He trails off. This time I wait him out. “I’m an old man, Debra. I started this division, and I’m still not ready to let it go. Frankly, at this stage in my life, I don’t know what else to do with myself.”

“You don’t need to defend yourself,” I say, before he can go on. “I understand.”

“You still mean a great deal to me. You’re the first person I’ve really connected with since Connie died.”

I want to tell him that he saved me. That I think he’s the only reason I didn’t spiral off the deep end after I saw that trace report, after I realized what Moser had planned for me that night, why he left me there in the dark in that garage. That without him here to anchor me I’m afraid I’m going to get sucked away again by that riptide.

And that I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. My chest is aching. I swallow the lump. “I’m gonna miss you,” is all I’ve got.

“Me too.”

We lapse into silence. I draw my knee up against my wheel, imagine us on either end of an enormous string of yarn, through the Florida swamps, across plains and mountains and long stretches of interstate, whatever the hell Salt Lake City looks like. Whatever the hell Oregon looks like. I imagine that the second one of us decides to end this call, that it’s going to disintegrate, and we’ll never see each other again.

“Do you think you’re ever gonna settle down again?” I ask.

It’s a beat before he replies. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t know that I ever really settled, even when I was living in DC and I had my wife and the picket fence to come home to.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Work has always had a way of keeping my blood pressure down.”

I squint a little. “That doesn’t really answer the question.”

Quiet on the other end. Then, “I try not to dwell.”

I don’t know if that’s a yes or a no. I decide not to pursue it. “Will I see you again?”

“I hope so.”

“I do too.”

More silence. Across the pavement, a second gull is fighting with the first one over my half-eaten lunch. I don’t know how to end the conversation, and I don’t particularly want to. Maybe I could keep the line open forever, keep Lundy in my purse and pick him up whenever I needed to talk. Or I could be a fucking adult about this, and let him go.

“Thanks,” I say finally. “For everything. For… believing in me.”

“Of course. And, Debra,” he pauses, “you really will be okay. You’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

He never saw me, fucking shrink wrapped to that table. “Yeah,” I decide to agree with him, “I’ll be okay.” I adjust my knee against the wheel. A question is nagging at me, suddenly. Something I kept meaning to ask him. “You remember what I asked you, that night before we knew it was Doakes?” I say, focusing on the BMW logo next to my knee. “Do you think Doakes fed me to Brian Moser?”

Another pause. “No, I don’t.” His tone is firm.

I’m starting to feel weirdly numb. “What makes you so sure?”

“I don’t know.” I picture him shrug. “I just don’t believe he did. Call it a feeling.” I hear the phone adjust. “But at this point… with both of them dead, I have to ask if knowing the answer would really give you any peace.”

I think about that for a beat. “I don’t know,” is what I come up with. “Maybe not.”

“Are you still afraid of the quiet?”

The question catches me off guard. “What?”

“When we were sitting outside the _Tribune_ , you told me you were afraid of the quiet, of being by yourself in it. Are you still afraid?”

“I…” I trail off, as I think about it. Really think about it. I haven’t had a nightmare in weeks, haven’t been afraid of the water, haven’t been too scared to let the front door out of my sight. Sometimes haven’t even had to think about it. “No,” I say eventually, “I’m not.”

“Guess you had enough practice with me?”

I remember what I said to him now. I smile. “Guess so.”

“You’re going to be alright. You don’t need me to protect you from yourself.”

A thought occurs, and I flush. “I hope you don’t think that’s the only reason—”

“I don’t,” he cuts me off, gently.

“Good.” I exhale.

Neither of us say anything else, but this time there’s a finality to the silence. Because this is the end, and I think we’re both aware of it. After a few seconds, I force myself to say the words: “I should let you go.”

“Alright.”

“Good luck.” With whatever you’re doing.

“Thanks. And I hope the wrap up on the Butcher investigation goes smoothly.”

“Me too.” My stomach squeezes. “Goodbye, Frank.”

“Goodbye, Debra.”

I pull the phone away from my ear, flip it closed. As my core constricts into a hard, tight ball.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

I can feel tears forming in my eyes, and I sniff, glance up from the wheel. The seagulls and my burrito are gone. A cyclist and a little girl on a pink bike glide by. Her helmet is covered in horse stickers. Up above, the clouds seem to be getting thicker. Maybe it is going to rain.

I take off my glasses and wipe my eyes. I don’t cry, even though I’m safe and alone in my car, and everything fucking hurts. Even though I want to.

I imagine him closing his phone and standing up from his table, bringing the tea with him. Getting into his new rental car and going to the store to get white bread, cucumbers, and cream cheese, so he can make his lunch and eat it at 1 o’clock.

I wonder if I should’ve flown to Oregon. If it’s not too late to change my mind. If it would be worth everything, my entire life here, just to eat the other half of that sandwich.

But I know it wouldn’t. That’s why I’m still sitting here. That’s why I just did what I did.

That’s why it’s over.

I sniff again, clear my throat, watch the girl and her dad as they disappear down the bike path. Watch the palm trees overhead sway in the breeze.

Everything is going to be okay. I may have even realized that eventually, on my own, without him having to tell me. Though it was nice to hear him say the words.

I replace the sunglasses over my eyes, lean back in my seat. Slowly exhale, as the knot in my chest seems to contract.

Everything is gonna be okay.

Maybe it already is.


	79. Back to the Evidence Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just assuming that the events at the end of the finale are out of order, since I sincerely doubt Lila had time to settle in Paris before Doakes’ funeral.

__

_Back to the Evidence Room  
_ _Setting:_ _“The British Invasion”_

* * *

I had a nightmare last night, for the first time since Lundy left. Woke up at 4AM sweaty and trapped in my sheets. After I tore myself out of bed, I couldn’t go back to sleep. For the first time in a long time, I was too afraid. It wasn’t until I got to the station, a half an hour early, that I really felt calm again. Before that, all I could think is that it’s starting again.

I exhale as I exit the stairwell and turn the corner. My gaze lands immediately on the placard beside the glass door as I approach it, then turn the knob.

 **EVIDENCE ROOM HOURS**  
**10am – 6pm  
** ** AUTHORIZED ** **ENTRY ONLY**

It’s been two weeks since Lundy left. I haven’t spoken to him since that afternoon near the beach. I wanted to call him today. Almost did. I had his number pulled up on my phone, as I sat in my car during lunch. But then I shut the thing, stuck it back in my purse. Lit a cigarette instead.

“Hello, ma’am.”

I smile reflexively at the evidence clerk. I have no idea what his name is. He’s not the usual guy. “Hi,” I say. “I need to look at the evidence from the Ice Truck Killer case.”

He doesn’t react to the request, or, more specifically, to the fact that I’m the one asking for it. I feel a twinge of relief. “Alright…” He trails off as he types something into his computer. “What we’ve got is all on the back wall, row 3. Looks like some of it’s been moved across the street into long-term storage. What specifically were you looking for?”

My mouth is going dry. I already know what’s here, and where it is, but I tell him anyway, “The stuff from his apartment.”

“That’s all here.”

I know. “Alright, thank you.”

He nods and slides the ledger over to me. After I scribble my signature, he buzzes me in, and I push open the chain-link door with my shoulder and head inside. The humming of the AC unit seems to get louder and louder as I walk between shelving units, as I scan the boxes across from me. As I find the words on the boxes in the middle row: _ICE TRUCK KILLER._

I stop in front of them. The silence is roaring now. It’s 5:48 on a Wednesday, and no one else is in here.

After a second, I pull one of the boxes out. It’s marked _KITCHEN._

The Bay Harbor investigation officially wrapped on Friday. I was the last person to be taken off it, and, consequently, the one who closed it, spent the whole week tying up loose ends and filing the paperwork. I was tossed back into the general rotation on Monday, the same day Batista was officially reinstated. By the afternoon, we were standing over a 19-year-old kid lying face-down in Spring Garden Point Park with two bullet holes in his back. No one in the neighboring houses saw or heard anything. We didn’t have an ID until this morning.

I bring the box I’m holding over to the table next to me and set it down, grab another one and set it beside the first. It’s a lot heavier.

Doakes’ body was released the same day the case closed, and his funeral was the next day. As far as I know, LaGuerta was the only person in the department who attended.

I grab another box, turn, and walk it over to the table. I don’t touch anything that came from the house in Fort Lauderdale. Try not to fucking look at it.

Matthews announced Monday that the brass is organizing a small ceremony this Sunday. Everyone who was on the task force is receiving certificates of excellence from the mayor for their work on the case. LaGuerta didn’t hear his announcement, and I don’t know if she knows about it. She’s on personal leave for the next two weeks. Meanwhile, the IA investigation on the department is dragging on, though they’ve yet to catch anyone in their net. My interview with them last week seemed to drag on a couple years.

I finally reach for a lid. I don’t know if this is the box I need. Distantly, it occurs to me that I should’ve asked for the evidence log. As I set the lid on the table and reach into the box.

I don’t know why I’m here.

I don’t know what I’m expecting to accomplish.

And I can smell him all over this shit, as I start pulling things out. None of it has taken on the scent of the rest of the evidence room. It’s just how it was. How he was. Exactly as I remember.

I find the pink record player. Pop it open to see that the Andy Williams record is still, inexplicably, inside it. Find the Barbie. Find that creepy fucking prosthetic hand.

The walls seem to retreat around me as I stare at it, manipulate it in its plastic baggie. I still don’t know why he had it. Maybe it was just something he took home from the office, a test arm or something. But I can’t escape the feeling that it isn’t innocuous. There’s something about it. About the way the nails are painted. The fact that they’re a little worn, a little sloppy. It doesn’t look like his work. But I don’t know why it exists. All I can see are Sherry’s fingertips in that ice block.

The walls are gone. The AC unit seems to be blasting directly into my ears. I can’t feel my fingers, or my feet on the floor. I inhale.

Last night I was back in the trunk, sandwiched between the wall and Fred Harvey’s corpse. But when Rudy finally popped the lid and yanked me out, he took me into his apartment. Dragged me into the freezer and hung me from my ankles on the rack. I knew he was dead. I knew he’d died there. It didn’t fucking matter, as he wrapped me up in plastic wrap and spun me upside down. As he set that bucket under my head. It didn’t matter what I told myself, or what I knew, what I said. He could still kill me.

He did kill me.

I stare at the hospital ID card in my hand, into Rudy’s face. My stomach rolls over. I don’t remember putting the prosthetic down.

Lundy asked me if it would matter if I knew the why or the how, or whether or not Doakes had anything to do with what happened to me. The truth is, I don’t think it would. Yet, here I am.

I put the card back, close the lid, open another box, set the lid down on the table. Find a file sitting on top. I shift it aside, dig around for whatever else is in here. The smell of him has enveloped me. I’m forgetting how to breathe.

And finally I find it. A white sheet of paper, tucked against the side of the box. It has to be it.

I pull it out. Feel a stab in my gut.

 

**_I GOT AWAY WITH IT_ **

 

That’s all it says, in red, in a neat, block print that isn’t familiar to me, doesn’t look like his handwriting. Not that I can really remember it anymore. I flip the page over, but it’s blank on the other side, so I turn it back, smooth out the creases in its plastic bag.

Lundy told me what it said, but for some reason I needed the confirmation. Needed to see it for myself, to know if that was really it. It was all I could seem to think about today, whenever I had more than a handful of seconds to myself. It drove me down here. For whatever fucking reason. I don’t know why anymore. I don’t know what I convinced myself I was going to find in it.

His last words, written on a fucking piece of printer paper. Before he went and cut his throat over a turkey tray. With a fucking steak knife. Left himself for us to find. For me to find.

I feel something inside me shift and uncoil, push hotly up my throat. My lips part.

And I realize it doesn’t matter what he said. That it doesn’t make a difference, and it wasn’t going to. That Lundy was right. That I’m standing here alone in the evidence room on a Wednesday evening holding one of the last things he ever touched, one of the last things he decided to communicate, and it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.

Because he did get away with it.

And because, in the end, I’m half certain it didn’t mean anything to him either.

I let my wrist droop against the box, as my gaze slips away, toward nothing in particular.

And I find myself thinking about my sessions with Sharon Wheeler, the department shrink. She used to ask me why I blamed myself for what he did to me, why I blamed myself and not all the other women he murdered, whose names he wrote on those plastic buckets. If I couldn’t find a way to forgive myself. She told me over and over that survivor’s guilt was real and it was normal, but I wouldn’t be able to heal until I forgave myself, that I’d never be able to make peace with it. That the nightmares would never stop.

I stare into that point in space. I can practically see the ugly porcelain elephants all over her shelves, sitting on her desk. Her stack of DSM-IV books. I blink and glance back at the note, at the other boxes.

But I don’t forgive myself. I don’t think I ever can. And even if I could, it wouldn’t unbreak me. Wouldn’t fucking… change anything. Because what happened to me can’t be undone.

I don’t know why I’m standing here, why I survived that night. If it really was because Moser was waiting for Doakes, or if he was letting me lie there: if it was just that he enjoyed keeping me, drugged and Saran-wrapped to that table. I don’t know why he never came after me. Why he killed himself before he was done with me, after he worked so hard to get me up to that fucking house to begin with. I don’t know why he let me go. I don’t know, and I’ll never know. But suddenly it seems clear to me that I’ll never find an answer here, in any of these boxes. Or anywhere.

 

**_I GOT AWAY WITH IT_ **

 

I flip the note upside down, put it back in the box it came from. Put the lid back on the box. Put the box back on its shelf. Put the rest of them away. I don’t feel anything. Whatever it was that I felt when I came down here, whatever it was that drove me to do this, is gone. If anything I feel like an idiot, for letting him mock me again. Maybe, in the end, if nothing else, that was really his only point.

( _I never wanted to hurt you_ )

Distantly, I hear my own sobs. Can feel the tape tight around my waist. Binding me to the mast.

( _Does this make it easier for you—_ )

I shove out the chain-link door, slightly more violently than I intended to. The clerk glances up at me from whatever he’s doing, gives me a bland smile. Maybe he didn’t hear it. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks.

For a beat, I look at him. I can still hear Moser’s voice, somewhere. And mine. Drifting in from a box on the other side of the chain link.

“No,” I say finally. “But thanks.”

Before he can reply, I open the door to the evidence room and step back into the hall, turn for the stairwell. My footsteps seem to click sharply off the walls. There’s no one else around. I start climbing the stairs.

Halfway up, it occurs to me that I saw that and walked out of there. That I saw his face and the ground didn’t dissolve beneath me. That I’m _fine_ , more or less. More than less.

I exhale as I walk back into Homicide and head to my desk. It’s quiet up here too. Everything has felt strangely still since the feds left.

I grab my shit out of my desk. Debate taking the case file of our dead 19-year-old home, decide to leave it in the drawer. Shut down my computer. Double check I have all my stuff. There’s a calm washing over me.

I’m not the same person I was when I walked onto that boat, but I’m not the same person that was cut off that table either. Whether that's due to time or Lundy or some internal force of will, this new version of myself I’ve been trying to construct, I have no fucking idea. But he’s dead, Doakes is dead, and I’ve run out of places to look for an answer. His suicide note was my last point of contact, and it turned out to be as meaningless as his death.

I adjust my purse over my shoulder and start walking for the elevator, nod at someone from the janitorial crew who’s spraying down the glass in the briefing room. Hit the down button. Tuck my hair behind my ears, clear my throat.

Lundy was right. It’s time to let it go.

And I think I’m finally ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mother of god, it’s fucking over. It’s fucking done. We fucking did it, Deb. All it took was like two fucking years.
> 
> Anyway, I’m not sure what the future of the series is. On one hand, I think Dexter is rapidly falling out of public memory and this project is doomed to be read by fewer and fewer people as time goes on. On the other hand, I don’t feel like writing anyone else, so even if it becomes me posting into a void… I may end up continuing to post into the void.
> 
> That being said, I’m considering writing a season 2.5, with an original case and a split POV between Deb and Dexter. There’s a year gap between s2 and s3 and I’m interested in exploring it. I have some ideas I’d like to play with and I think Dexter’s perspective might be fun to work with. If you’ve gotten this far and you have any interest, let me know. Maybe it’ll happen, maybe it won’t, maybe I’ll just end up moving straight to s3. Who knows.
> 
> There’ll be a meta thing of my thoughts on s2 going up at some point in the near future. Check it out if you care.
> 
> That’s it. Thanks for reading.


	80. Season 2 Meta/Thoughts

Is it deeply narcissistic to once again write what’s essentially a writer’s commentary on my own fic? Yeah, probably. But at this point it’s been several years, somewhere north of 350 000 words, and my wall is covered with notes, my computer’s full of screencaps, and I feel like Deb is leasing real estate in my soul, so I couldn’t construct a pretense if I wanted to. So let’s talk s2.

__

**S2: Generally**

S2 feels uniquely myopic in its focus on Dexter, and, consequently, fairly contrived, at least in contrast to the other seasons. I say this because both the primary plot (the BHB investigation and Doakes’ suspicions) and most of the subplots (stemming from Rita and Lila) require a hard-line focus on Dexter’s POV in order to make sense, which is an issue I ran into a lot while trying to work with this season. The entire heroin plot would’ve unraveled instantly if at any point in time Rita had decided to call Deb about it. The Bay Harbor investigation is all but constructed out of plot holes. Happily, since I was writing from Deb’s perspective, I could pretty much ignore that first one, and focus mostly on dealing with the second.

Dexter is being hunted by what is effectively a fictionalized version of John Douglas and the FBI Serial Crime Unit. The first three episodes set them up as a credible threat, but after that the task force’s momentum dries up, and they spend long stretches of episodes doing essentially nothing. The pace of the investigation feels unnatural and doesn’t hold up to critical examination, and there never seems to be any real danger that they’re going to catch Dexter. Especially since the lead that ends up implicating someone within Miami Metro (Lenny Asher) really should’ve been found shortly after Anthony Rodrigo was IDed. It’s fairly inexcusable that a senior detective like Batista wouldn’t have reinterviewed a potential witness. And yet.

I think that this is one of the primary weaknesses of this season: it doesn’t really take advantage of the task force. In some ways, I feel like s5 had the arc that s2 should have, with the police (spearheaded by Deb) always just nipping at Dexter’s heels. Instead, Lundy’s task force runs somewhat stagnantly in the background, and the real tension comes from Doakes, whose antagonism toward Dexter began in the previous season and barely has anything to do with the Bay Harbor investigation until he’s caught at the center of it. When it comes down to it, by the end of the season the task force never _actually_ accomplishes anything. The events that led to Doakes’ death wouldn’t have even been affected had Dexter’s victims never been found and the FBI never landed in Miami.

That was a big part of the challenge in working with s2 was trying to make the investigation feel interesting and like it had weight, for the reader and, even more basically, for me, just to maintain an interest in writing it. What was nice is that since the police procedure side of this season was so vague, it gave me an opportunity to flesh out all of Dexter’s victims (at least, the Bay Harbor 18 and all of the people who’d made it into Dexter’s original trophy case) and to control that part of the narrative. It was interesting to concept all that, even though the vast majority of what I came up with never made it into the fic, especially because I think s2 made a mistake in never really exploring any of Dexter’s victims. I think they could’ve used some of those victims to say something about Dexter and about why he does what he does. That was why I really liked my concept for Carlos Gutierrez, who was this guy who shot and killed a patrol officer around the same time Deb had first joined MMPD. I liked this thought that Dexter, maybe for the first time in his life, felt fear for his sister. That he heard the report of a young, female patrol officer getting shot and was afraid that it was Deb. I liked the idea of him reaching out to her to reconnect, then promptly locating Gutierrez and violently ending his life. I also liked bringing back Mike Donovan, who was killed in the pilot episode, and having his victims be found by the task force. I liked having Deb go in and talk to the family members of these people. I liked being able to make them more than just names on boards or blood drops on slides, and to explore (through the limited scope of Deb’s POV) who they were, and what it meant that Dexter murdered them.

And that’s the thing is Dexter _did murder them._ There were _46_ slides in that box. The show is built off the idea that retribution is real and that it does indemnify. In s2 all Dexter’s skeletons fall out of the closet, but they’re just there and they’re just dead, and you excuse the fact that they’re there and they’re dead because the task force rapidly finds that all of them were murderers. Even the law enforcement working the case never show any real empathy toward the Butcher’s victims. But what was interesting about viewing them through Deb’s lens is that she more or less _was_ a Bay Harbor victim herself. Her perspective is that of someone who was drugged, stripped naked, and bound in plastic to a table. The question is whether or not anyone could deserve that. Doakes sort of talks about this with Dexter, but I feel like s2 missed the opportunity to really truly look at the people he was killing, outside of Dexter’s perspective. To really look at what he was doing. Because he does torture them, and I think it’s easy not to think about it like that as you’re consuming the series and watching him murder his victim of the week. It’s easy not to give a shit, to see them as monsters rather than human beings. Within the confines of my fic, I thought it was interesting to consider if and why that justifies that they were murdered, which is a question I’m still not sure how to answer.

And what was even more interesting (at least, for me) was having Deb, who could directly empathize with the Bay Harbor victims, struggle with that, with whether or not she truly felt anything for them. Because she almost certainly would never wish what happened to her on anyone, but she would’ve genuinely, deeply wished it on Brian Moser (or, I believe she would have).

**S2: Deb** **’s side of it**

S2 misses so much potential with Deb that it’s a little sickening. Even moreso than with s1 (somehow), there was a lot of dead space in her narrative. If s1 was the “Deb falls in love with the Ice Truck Killer” season, s2 is the “Deb falls in love with her father” season, and I find it irritating that the fallout from her abduction and near death is swept under the rug in favor of wildly inappropriate romantic conflict. And I say this even though I like Deb and Lundy’s relationship (mostly).

That said, as sparse as we see it, Deb does grow a lot this season. Her transformation from ep 1 to ep 11 is striking. I think you can question how much of it is a facade, but as she sits there eating steak she does seem to mean what she says about having achieved a sort of self-reinvention, which is impressive considering where she was a few months ago. It’s the first example of Deb’s Twinkie-like ability to bounce back, despite the traumas she endures throughout the series. For me, by far the most interesting aspect of s2 was working out how she even got from point A to point B, and trying to define what and where those points really were.

__

_“All kinds of fucked-up shit went through my head… I’d’ve done almost anything to get out from under the weight of it all.”_

We don’t know what happened to her between s1 and s2. We don’t know what made her move in with Dexter. It’s clear she developed a codependency to him, but we never see him taking care of her. By the time s2 rolls around, she’s already escaped the absolute bottom of her spiral, but we don’t know what it looked like when she hit it, and we don’t know what he did to help pull her out of it. This conversation is the deepest (and, really, the only) insight we get into how far she fell.

I decided not to write Deb hitting bottom. The post season I wrote for s1 was her downward spiral, but it ended before she hit her bleakest point, and I picked up s2 as she was beginning to stabilize. Part of the reason for that is I just didn’t want to go there. I’ve watched this steak and potatoes scene over and over and over, who knows how many times, and, though I don’t know for certain, I believe she’s implying here that she was suicidal, and I didn’t want to write that. I didn’t want to try to write something with that kind of intensity, didn’t want to have to determine how serious those feelings really were, didn’t want to go there, but, that being said, it was a heavy influence as to how I approached writing her PTSD and her recovery. I don’t imagine Deb as the kind of person who had ever had feelings like that before, and I think it would’ve scared the shit out of her to be brought to that point. I think it would’ve compounded the shame and the survivor’s guilt she felt from being victimized and having survived physically unscathed. That’s why I never had her directly talk or think about it, because I think acknowledging, even to herself, that she had ever felt that way would’ve been far too painful and too shameful for her to bear. I think this combined with the raw trauma of what she went through explains the strong codependency she develops toward her brother, and why she ends up latching so tightly onto Lundy.

Speaking of Deb and Dexter’s relationship: I think the implication is that prior to this—  prior to her being in Homicide, but especially prior to Moser attacking her —they were somewhat estranged. It seems like her period of extreme codependency, and probably his guilt over what happened to her, did a lot to bring them back together, maybe even closer than they were growing up. I liked being able to see Dexter the way Deb sees him, because in her eyes he was a caring (if emotionally constipated), patient, and constant source of support. I’ve always felt that this side of him, as rare as it was to see it, was compelling, because it exposed some of his own vulnerability, but having this extra layer of guilt was interesting to work with. I liked the idea of Deb reeling, trying to come up with any explanation as to why Moser did what he did to her, while Dexter comforted her, all the while pretending that he didn’t know. I liked having him apologize to her, though she didn’t know why.

Exploring their relationship also allowed me to talk more about their childhoods. I think one of the things about Deb that people complain about is her blind spot when it comes to Dexter. She grew up with him. She of all people should’ve known what was happening. But in writing her it just seems so obvious to me why she never did: because he was just _always like this._ It’s just Dexter being Dexter, the same Dexter he’s always been. His behavior is so normalized to her that of course she never puts together what any of it means. I don’t believe Dexter is a Patrick Bateman type— he isn’t the cold, soulless psychopath that Harry made him out to be, that Harry made him believe he was —and I don’t believe the signs would’ve been clear to her, as she grew up or otherwise. In fact, I think to some degree Deb does see who Dexter is more clearly than Harry ever did. I liked being able to point that out, with her living with him and recognizing his oddities, but constantly dismissing them.

What I also liked about season 2 was that it gave me an opportunity to talk more about Deb’s private life. In s3 Yuki Amado shows up and starts sticking barbs into her about her personal life, because she doesn’t have one and she doesn’t really seem to have any friends outside the job. It wasn’t something I spent time addressing in s1, but going through s2 I started to piece together a narrative as to when and why this happened. My sense was that it started happening while she was working Vice, as the hours and her long stints undercover put strain on her ability to socialize, and that after Moser attacked her she retreated even further from her old friends and colleagues. I think it’s clear that Deb invests a lot more of herself into romantic rather than platonic relationships anyway (which is part of the reason she was so vulnerable to Brian Moser, and explains the dynamics of her relationships throughout the series), so it was interesting to me to write in real time her trying to make up for the emptiness in her home life by latching onto work, and to Gabriel, then Lundy. I think it nicely sets up her frustration in s3, where she’s forced to recognize the unhealthy relationships she has to her job, cigarettes and alcohol, and the men in her life (whether or not that led to any significant change, however, is up for debate).

Ultimately, even though s2 didn’t spend the screen time on her that I think it should have, it was still a pivotal season for Deb. The further into it I got, the more I saw the beginnings of the emotional deep freeze she mentions in s5 after she killed Carlos Fuentes. The woman who lets the Vigilante Killers go and who helped Dexter burn down that church is almost unrecognizable against the one we meet at the start of s1, and I think a lot of that damage can be traced back to here, to what Brian Moser took from her and how she ended up putting herself back together.

**Pre-Season; It** **’s Alive, Waiting to Exhale, An Inconvenient Lie, See-Through**

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Pre-Season: Deb was still very raw at the start of the season, and that rawness was the focus of my opening. She’s doing all these things to try to help her cope, but in her mind none of them are really working, and she feels trapped within herself and her thoughts. She doesn’t have work to escape into, and she has nightmares every night, even if she drugs herself. By the time she’s reinstated, she’s more stable than she was, but my point in that was trying to indicate how bad it had been before, if this was her feeling better.

“Blame Me” was where I set up a lot of the psychological underpinnings of the season and, consequently, of Deb into the later series. Beyond my read into a couple lines of dialogue, I don’t necessarily have anything solid to point to as evidence, but I never got the impression that she was ever able to forgive herself for what Moser did to her. There’s something so simple and so cruel about it, that Deb would never blame any of his other victims for what happened to them, but that she denied herself that same forgiveness and continued to hold onto that blame, even after she’d learned to live with it. In the start of the fic she ends up openly and hostilely admitting this to her department-assigned shrink, and I like that it indicates to both the shrink and to the reader the type of scar tissue Deb is forming around herself.

2x01: I don’t have a ton to say about this ep that isn’t related to what I already said about the pre-season. Deb is surprisingly stable at work, but you can see it’s just a veneer when you get to the bar scene and she clocks a guy for touching her. I liked the canonical bar scene and “Peas in a Fucking-Up Pod” because it was interesting (and horrible) to see that Deb, who saved Rita from Paul, had become so far reduced, and Rita is the one, of all people, to try to comfort her. Of course, while Rita clearly shrank away to the woman we meet in the Pilot, from here Deb just sort of keeps barreling forward. It’s interesting to me to think about how differently they coped, and to see in contrast to Rita how strong Deb really is. She’s still damaged, and I think one could argue that of the two of them, Rita healed much more completely, but it’s still a testament to Deb’s grit.

Additionally, while I’m on this ep, I wanted to mention Camilla in “Look Scared.” She knew about Brian Moser being Dexter’s brother here. We know she knew, because she told Dexter in s3 she knew. I liked this chapter not just because it was a chance to talk a bit about Deb and the Morgans’ relationship with Camilla, but also because it was having Deb and Camilla meet face-to-face after she was attacked. Camilla searches her here, wondering if Deb knows, and realizes she doesn’t, and she doesn’t see fit to tell her either. I was never sure why Deb and Camilla never had a canonical scene together, especially in s3, so I was happy for the excuse to have it here, especially as she sits on something so important.

2x02: This ep has a lot of momentum, and I really like it. There was a lot of good PTSD-related stuff here. And then there’s the whole thing with Joey Nunez.

Look, I’ll be honest, I think this is a scene that never would’ve happened had this show been a little older. Deb shoved her gun in the face of a (Hispanic) child and nothing happened. Her trauma or not, she would’ve been canned instantly for this, and the fact that she wasn’t was impossible for me to justify unless Batista literally lied about what happened, so that’s what I had happen. It was an interesting scene for me to write, but it also felt a little dirty too, having Batista sit there and say she doesn’t deserve to lose her job over what happened and that he’d be willing to lie about what she did. And then she gets the bust on the Kings because of it, and gets a big pat on the back by Pascal. It’s _insane._ Yet, it’s canonical. Go figure.

Related to this, “Slogging Forward” ended up being one of my favorite scenes of the season, because it was a chance to have LaGuerta do her job as her superior. The fact is, Deb was very clearly still suffering from PTSD, yet she was armed and out doing field duty, and a few hours after her first day back she went out and assaulted someone because he touched her. Canonically, Deb was pissed leaving the meeting with the LTs that LaGuerta recommended she be taken out of the field, but it was a justified recommendation, and I really liked having LaGuerta talk to her seriously in this scene. Deb can’t offer her any solid reassurance that she really is okay enough to be there (which ends up being true, as she assaults Nunez two days later), and LaGuerta is trying to protect both her and the community by attempting to take her off dangerous ground. One of the things I really liked about this scene is that it established that LaGuerta really did care about her— despite their animosity, and despite her behavior toward her in s1. I liked having LaGuerta express that, as she tried to yank Deb’s leash back under control. I also liked to write the reminder that Deb is, in fact, a police officer, and not just a Homicide cop with carte blanche to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.

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2x03: This was where the real meat of s2 ended up being, because this was where I had the opportunity to introduce a new subplot, which was addressing one of the biggest plot holes in the series— how obviously identical the Butcher’s MO was to how Deb was set up by Brian Moser on that table. The thing is that we know for a fact that the task force knew about the plastic wrap and duct tape, because Lundy mentions it to Dexter in 2x06, so the chances of her not knowing about it were zero. I decided to embrace that.

“Plastic Wrap and Duct Tape,” “Sticky Note,” and “Hell” were the best parts of this fic for me. Just as Deb was beginning to ever so slightly stabilize (which was what I was writing in the chapters previous to this), she gets sucker punched by Masuka’s trace report on the Butcher’s victims and she realizes their implication. Everyone drew the parallel between the ITK and the BHB’s MOs, but when she saw that report she was the only one who knew that they had been identical exactly one time— when Moser drugged her and bound her to that table. It was such an incredible level of mind fuck that it honestly astounds me the show never did this. And then to take the mind fuck further, Deb then remembers Valerie Castillo, that weird cut on her cheek, and the freaky way she was displayed, and she makes that connection to the Butcher.

With the M-99, Valerie Castillo gave such a tangible connection between Deb and the BHB victims that it felt almost beautiful to me. Deb ends up going to Masuka about it because she’s too ashamed to ask her brother to run her own blood panel, and I loved the resulting scenes between her and Masuka, here when she asks him to do it, and later when he tells her that she was right, and he watches as she hides it from Lundy and the rest of their colleagues. It was as incredibly messed up as it was easy to write. Everything that resulted from her seeing that trace report practically wrote itself it felt so obvious, which is why, again, it just amazes me that the show didn’t go for this subplot.

“Hell” ended up functioning as a sort of climax of Deb’s PTSD, and it was my favorite scene I wrote in s2. It was an incredibly violent dream that both was and wasn’t a memory of what she went through, where she does remember the second figure that was there that night in that garage, but she doesn’t realize that it was real. I loved juxtaposing this figure cutting her cheek open with Dexter waking her up. It was an obvious, literal analogue to Dexter’s murders, but that was the point. And then Deb’s awake and it’s over but the memories are so powerful that they make her puke. In the face of her suffering, Dexter can’t do anything for her, just as he hasn’t been able to do anything for her through two months of these kinds of nightmares (the strength of which are a big part of the reason she was forced to give up her independence and move in with him). After playing games with Brian Moser all of s1, he deserved, at the least, to see what it had cost her, night after night.

2x04: Deb’s story presence in this ep was fairly light, so most of my chapters were oriented toward filling in case work and further developing my subplot. Deb also started seeing Gabriel this ep, which was an interesting decision considering how much she was still reeling (clearly, since she couldn’t feel safe with Gabriel until she’d handcuffed him to the bed). You see her doing this kind of thing again with Quinn after Rita died, and with that idiot in s8, so it’s not atypical behavior for her, but it was still interesting to dissect where she was coming from here. Deb’s a very sexual person, and she doesn’t like being single— I think romantic partnerships are how she prefers her emotional bonds and, as I said before, she doesn’t invest a lot of energy into friendships, so I think the fact that Moser robbed her of her ability to feel safe sexually must’ve been very hard for her, and was probably why she more or less forced the issue in this ep. She later describes herself as “hiding” with Gabriel, and by this I always thought she meant that she wasn’t with him because she was truly interested in him, or because she wanted to be with him, but because she wanted to prove to herself that she _could_ be with him, that she was still capable of being touched without flinching or feeling afraid, that Moser hadn’t robbed her of this part of her that was so important to her.

“Up and Down” was me trying to answer an open plot thread from 1x06, which was how exactly Valerie Castillo’s body was found to begin with. When I thought about it, the answer seemed obvious— Moser recovered her body and laid it out, and he wanted to jerk Dexter around, so he must’ve called it in rather than wait for someone to discover her. I thought it’d be interesting if Batista dug up the 9-11 recording and Deb heard his voice again. It also helped to cement the connection that Deb had made between the ITK and the BHB, if the Butcher had murdered Castillo but Moser had called in the body. It fit in surprisingly well with Deb’s (inaccurate) theory as to what had happened to Valerie too.

“Let Go” was another important scene in my subplot, because this is where Deb really opens up to Lundy for the first time about what happened to her. I liked the excuse to further develop their early bond, that way by the time I got to 2x07 her feelings for him would make more sense. It was also important because it was when I had Deb essentially give Lundy both the go-ahead and a good reason to dig deep into Moser, which is something that ends up running mostly in the background of the rest of my fic, but really affected how I wrote Lundy after this.

**The Dark Defender; Dex, Lies, and Video Tape; That Night, a Forest Grew; Morning Comes**

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The mid stretch of this fic was a little slumpy. Canonically, the cop side of the storyline during these eps lost most of its momentum, as the show shifted its focus to Lila and Doakes, so I was left to make up a lot of filler and to spend a lot of time with Deb outside of case work.

2x05: This was a weird episode for me, because emotionally Deb was kind of all over the map here. She sat at Coral Cove calmly having coffee with Dexter on the first day of the ep, but the next day, on returning to the marina, she’s freaking out about being on the water. She calms down with Lundy, but she’s still skittish around Gabriel, and has a freak out with him over a misinterpreted email. It feels inconsistent, but when it came down to actually working with these scenes her behavior started to make more sense. At this point it’s been about 12 weeks since her abduction, and she’s starting to have stretches where she feels like herself again, but she’s still unstable, she still doesn’t feel safe, and (I think) it was difficult for her to accept that she didn’t have control over her feelings or her reactions to things. Having her talk to Gabriel in “The Ice Princess” was an interesting scene for me to write, because I could explore this subconscious fear she felt of him because of Moser, despite her surface feelings, and also have her express in her own words what happened to her to someone she was physically intimate with. Truthfully, I always felt Gabriel was a bit of a meat head— a nice guy, but a meat head —and it was almost funny to me to have her trying to communicate this terrible thing to someone with the emotional depth of a kiddie pool, especially in contrast to Lundy, who was so much more intelligent and had a much deeper understanding of what she was suffering (as well as the kind of person it was who had victimized her).

2x06: Of these four eps, this is the only one where something actually _happens_ on the task force side, though the deeper I got, the more I realized that the John Henry/Ken Olson storylet was handled strangely. For one thing, Ken Olson was _murdered_ less than 12 hours after he came into MMPD because he saw his face on the news, yet never once does anyone on the task force acknowledge that they were (as far as they could know) responsible for putting Olson on the Butcher’s radar. In fact, they don’t seem to care that he was murdered. This is a good example of a lack of a moral exploration, even though it was easily reachable, and it feels a little off to me. And speaking of off, it was even stranger to me that Deb, who was starting to spiral just from stepping foot onto a dock in 2x05, stood over Olson’s dismembered corpse without blinking. These were both things that I tried to address when handling this episode. “The Abyss” was an extension of that, and also allowed me to revisit Lundy’s progress looking into Brian Moser, which wasn’t something I could ever have Lundy fully talk about, since I was limited to Deb’s perspective. Since I’m speaking outside her perspective now though, I figure this is a good place to talk about that.

Having Lundy look into Moser was a canonically shaky idea, but I think it explained a lot about his behavior toward Dexter, and I think it grew organically from my subplot where Deb connected the dots between Brian Moser and the Bay Harbor Butcher. In my version of the canon, as well as uncovering several homicides that Moser was potentially responsible for (including Rudy Cooper’s), Lundy did find out about the shipyard massacre, and he did learn that Brian was Dexter’s brother. There’s no chance he wouldn’t have— Deb was able to find Laura Moser’s obit via search engine in s4. Lundy had the resources of the FBI. He knew. The (my) reason he didn’t say anything was because he didn’t know for sure that Dexter knew that (though he suspected it, and he also suspected that this was why Moser targeted Deb and why Moser called Dexter to that house, because he agreed with Deb that Dexter’s “he was having doubts” story didn’t make any sense), and because he knew that, whether or not Dexter knew, Deb wouldn’t be able to handle that piece of information. I think that in 2x06 Lundy’s decision to bring Dexter to the train car instead of Masuka wasn’t just because he was tired of Masuka: he wanted to get a closer read on Dexter. Between what he’d recently found out about his relationship to Moser and Dexter’s boat being at one of the marinas Masuka’s algae led them to, as early as this ep Lundy was starting to suspect Dexter. It was really only his deepening relationship with Deb that saved Dexter from him digging harder into him. There was a big part of him that simply didn’t want to believe it, and didn’t want to take the risk of being wrong, not only because of what it would do to the department, but because of what it would do to Deb.

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_The interesting thing is it_ _’s almost like the canon agrees with me, since the ITK evidence box Deb pulls in s7 is dated April 2007, right in the middle of the BHB investigation. I don’t know why it’s dated this way, since even with the canon’s extremely loose handling of dates, Deb was attacked in December, and the BHB investigation was around March/April 2007, as also acknowledged in s7. I like to think that this was a tacit subplot, especially considering Lundy’s behavior toward Dex in s2 and s4, but I guess we’ll never know._

2x07: The manuscript was something I took a lot of liberties with, mostly because we never really saw the thing, and mostly because I desperately needed the task force to actually have something to do. I thought the most interesting thing would be if Dex had given the task force the location of a few of his victims’ victims, including Mike Donovan’s victims, so that’s what I did. It also gave me a chance to pursue the whole moral question thing again in “Evil.” Additionally, I was able to explore Dexter a little more, since he was the one who penned it. I thought it’d be interesting if Dexter never mentioned the ITK in his manifesto. Deb assumes the Butcher doesn’t mention the ITK because he doesn’t want to call attention to their relationship. And maybe that’s part of Dexter’s motive, but he also wanted to spare her feelings and didn’t want to drag what happened to her back into the lime light. I believe he genuinely would’ve wanted to protect her, and I liked that it was something very, very subtle I could have him do here. The manifesto stuff aside, I was disappointed that the show never gave Deb’s reaction to Doakes attacking Dexter, so I wrote that up. 2x06 was also the site of Deb’s break up with Gabriel and her kissing Lundy, but I talked about that enough in the fic itself, I think.

2x08: This was a weirdly important episode in the sense that it contained a chapter that I had been planning on since the start of the fic, which was “Knowing.” One of the things that has been important to my characterization of Deb, since the end of s1, but also through to the end of the series, is she never knew that Moser didn’t commit suicide. For her, his suicide was a deeply nonsensical act, and was traumatic in and of itself. It was extremely important to me that Deb find out that Moser had left a suicide note, which was something I made sure that she did _not_ know immediately after his death, and it was important to me that Lundy be the one to deliver her its message, which was, “I got away with it.” There was something so deeply terrible about it to me, that his last words would be something so utterly devoid of meaning.

Of course, the point between the lines is that it’s all a fabricated narrative: Brian Moser didn’t kill himself; he didn’t write the note. His final act was to attempt to murder Deb when he believed she was sleeping in her brother’s bed, and Dexter put him down instead. Dexter wrote the note. And that’s kind of the salient point when it comes to approaching s2 from Deb’s perspective— the narratives of Doakes as the Butcher and Brian Moser’s death are Dexter’s constructions. She puts herself back together and rebuilds her universe based on his design. And the interesting thing is that although she eventually finds out the truth about Doakes in s7, there’s no evidence that Deb ever learns that Dexter killed his brother for her. It’s endlessly interesting to me that Deb is forced to cope with (what seems to be) the utter pointlessness of his suicide, never knowing what really happened. I don’t know if the chapter really landed the impact I was going for, but I hope it does.

But beyond “Knowing,” 2x08 was important because Deb got her new apartment, which was a huge step for her in her recovery, and, obviously, because it’s the ep where there’s finally confirmation that the Butcher is within MMPD (side note, I feel like it’s not insignificant that it was Deb’s work that got them that lead; just another example of Deb’s excellent detective skills, which so often go unappreciated). “Patrick Bateman” was a semi important chapter too, just because it let me tie a bit of a bow on the Castillo case and brought the tampered DEA list to light. And, even more obviously, it’s the ep where Deb and Lundy finally get together. Their intimacy came at a critical time for Dexter, because had it not happened, (at least, in my version of the canon) Lundy would’ve put the thumbscrews to Dexter immediately following the discovery of that license plate.

**Resistance is Futile; There** **’s Something About Harry; Left Turn Ahead; The British Invasion**

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The final, “Doakes is the Bay Harbor Butcher” section. Honestly, some of the most interesting parts of this for me were Lundy’s stuff, even though I wasn’t writing from his perspective. Not that Deb’s reaction to her former partner being not just a serial killer, but potentially the one who was in league with Brian Moser, wasn’t interesting too.

2x09: I don’t have a lot in addition to say here. I liked being able to explore everyone’s initial reactions to the news that Doakes was the Butcher. It was actually weirdly opportune for me, since we didn’t see Deb getting the news, so I got to write that scene the way I wanted it to be. For some reason, I liked the idea that she was the last to know, and that no one believed at first that she didn’t know and that Lundy didn’t tell her. I also liked writing LaGuerta trying to cope with the news. She becomes a sort of tragic character at this point in the season, and it was interesting to me to interpret her through Deb’s lens, since the two still have a lot of antipathy toward each other in s2. I think it helped Deb see LaGuerta as more of a human being rather than as someone who existed mostly to fuck up her life. Additionally, I liked “Press Release,” mostly because I liked having the media bring up the ITK and his connection to the department, as Deb sat there and saw that and didn’t melt down over it. It was a good way of showing how much she’s stabilized since 2x01, since she wouldn’t have been able to calmly absorb that just a few months ago.

2x10: A lot of these chapters were about cementing Deb’s belief that Doakes was the Butcher, in contrast to Lundy’s reservations. In “Through the Swamp” Lundy expressed a lot of his doubts (though he was unable to tell her one of its main sources, which was the fact that he suspected Dexter), and I was able to have Deb counter a lot of his points. I always wondered how Doakes didn’t have a single alibi for almost a decade’s worth of homicides, and I wanted to try to give some explanation as to what made him seem like such a plausible suspect. The fact that I could have Deb be the one to come up with them felt appropriate, especially since she was the quickest to turn on Doakes and one of the only ones consistently suggesting violence against him. This was interesting to me in and of itself, since he was her partner and they were, briefly at least, friends. I think it speaks a lot to how much Moser hurt her, that she so immediately wrote him off, and I think it dovetailed nicely with my subplot that she believed that the ITK and the BHB were in communication. In my fic, the idea that Doakes fed her to Moser was deeply disturbing to her, and once she believed it there was no redeeming him in her eyes. In some ways, she starts to think of Doakes the way she thinks of Moser, which was why she ends up suggesting to Lundy that Doakes may’ve dosed LaGuerta when they were in that hotel room. I’ve always had a thought that Moser may’ve drugged Deb with the M-99 in 1x11, in order to make sure she remained unconscious while he moved Santos’ body out of the fridge to Santa’s Village, and I liked having her put that together in this scene.

Somewhat tangentially, “Disconnected” for me was an interesting look at Deb’s psyche based on her conversation with LaGuerta in this episode. There was something about the way LaGuerta asked her if she’d ever cared about anyone that stuck with me, I think because of her suggestion that Deb was being heartless. What struck me is that it was accurate— Deb _was_ cruel and unsympathetic in that conversation —which was very different from the way she was in s1. It’s an early indication of how much she’d hardened by the time she hit s3 and the “Fucking Weepbag Fiona” case, as well as later into the series.

2x11: This ended up being a lite chapter ep, despite it containing my favorite scene in s2, which was the Deb and Dex eat steak and talk scene. Mostly the chapters ended up focusing on trying to get the Vice case against Batista to make sense (which is impossible from the start, because rape would’ve been handled by Violent Crimes, not Vice). “Screwed” was a fun scene for me though, because I got to introduce Quinn and his partner, Stewart. When Deb meets them, the two of them and Yuki Amado are actually on the case which leads to Stewart shooting the unarmed coke dealer, which leads to him killing himself. He ends up dying within a couple months of this scene, which is part of what triggers Quinn’s move to Homicide and Yuki’s move to IA. It was fun to have an excuse to stick that into my fic’s time line.

“Contradictions” was another scene where Lundy tries to talk about Doakes, but he’s hindered by not being able to mention Dexter. I think mostly it was my way of hanging a lampshade on how obviously incongruous the case against Doakes really was at this stage in the investigation. I think in all honesty, knowing what Lundy knew, had Dexter proceeded with the frame job and released Doakes, after hearing Doakes’ side, Lundy would’ve reoriented the weight of his suspicion onto Dexter, despite his desire to protect Deb. This scene was my way of saying that Dexter was on a razor edge here, and he’s very lucky that Doakes died this night.

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2x12: s2 ended up wrapping pretty easily. Unlike s1, it didn’t really leave anything unresolved, from Deb or Dex’s side, which is why I didn’t bother with a post season. “The End of It” and “Dead” are basically the wraps on the BHB investigation. Once again, I liked Lundy here especially, because he receives the news that they found the car and all he wants is to bring Doakes in safely, but then Doakes dies, and there’s no easy avenue left to delve deeper into his belief that he may’ve been innocent. And then they find that second body in the cabin. This was enough to somewhat instantly cauterize any grief Deb may’ve felt for Doakes, and enough to make Lundy doubt his doubts— especially since he knows that Dexter was with Deb very shortly before the cabin blew, far too soon for him to have gotten there and killed him.

The first part of “Creepy-Ass Portrait” was another lampshade. It was a big plot hole that Jimenez was renting that cabin, because it very easily would’ve led to the shipyard massacre had anyone bothered to dig into him. My justification is that Deb ended up being the one to close the case and decided not to try to get beyond the WITSEC firewall (which, of course, wasn’t real, because his file had been scrubbed by either Camilla or Dexter or both) because she didn’t feel it was relevant to his disappearance, and Lundy, though he had seen the name in relation to Laura Moser, didn’t connect the dots between Jimenez and Dexter the way LaGuerta does in s7. The second part was addressing the dialogue suggestion that Deb had in fact gone to see Lila this day, even though we never saw the scene. I wanted Deb to see that portrait and to have a chance to tell Lila all the things she’d dug up on her, to say that that story Lila told Dexter in 2x05 was fabricated, and to have Lila standing there, knowing what she knows about Dexter, and having just murdered Doakes, struggling with her desire to rub Deb’s nose in it. This whole chapter Deb was a hair’s breadth from finding everything out, which is something I always enjoy writing.

And then there’s the Lundy-related stuff. I’ll be honest, Deb’s impulse to drop her entire life and go with Lundy to Oregon is probably number two of my top three cringiest Deb moments. It made absolutely less than no sense to me, and even after struggling and forcing it to make sense, it doesn’t make sense to me. It will never make sense to me. All I could come up with is that it wasn’t entirely about Lundy. It was about the fact that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to be okay without him. At this point she’d convinced herself that the progress she’d made in dealing with her PTSD and learning to cope with what had happened to her was because of Lundy, not because of her own strength of will, and that once he left she would backslide into that dark place again. She was terrified of being subsumed by those feelings. Whether or not this was what the writers thought when they wrote this (assuming they weren’t just… filling their air ducts with cocaine or something), I have no idea, but it was the best I had, because Deb dropping her career, which she had worked indescribably hard for, for a man she’d known less than three months was beyond insane to me. “Okay” ended up taking me like three weeks to write, just because I could not figure out how to have Deb have a rational break up with Lundy after her behavior the previous night. Who knows how well I succeeded, though at least I got Deb to ask Lundy if he has any regrets, to which he replies that he tries not to dwell on his life, which was bit of packaged life advice for Deb in terms of her endless search (in my fic, anyway) for answers regarding what Moser did to her.

And then there’s “Back to the Evidence Room,” which was the complement scene to “Knowing” and was the way I knew I’d end the season before I even started writing it. I think I already talked a lot about the note and about why it was important for me that Deb see it, so I won’t go into that, but the point here is that Deb at the start of fic wouldn’t have been able to survive seeing it. Deb was in here before pulling out the ITK files in “Let Go,” but her physically holding the note and looking at all that stuff and remaining clear headed was important to me to establish. It was a way of proving to herself that not only would she survive (with or without Lundy), but that she already had. She stands there and looks at the note and she realizes that she’s moved on, even if the fact that she was victimized is not something she can forgive herself for. And what I like about the scene is that in the end it’s anticlimactic: she’s finally reading the thing, but it doesn’t matter what it said. It doesn’t make any difference, and it doesn’t mean anything to her. There was never an answer there for her to find. And, again, the reason for that is because she’s working off a fabricated narrative, that narrative being that she was targeted randomly, and that Moser killed himself after failing to murder her. And that’s kind of the moral of the story of s2 for Deb’s side of it— to some degree, everything is just a lie.

**Wrap Up**

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The fact that this meta ended up like 200x longer than my meta for s1 is sort of analogous to writing s2. Deb at this point is a comfortable narrator to me, and she’s definitely, by astronomically far the character I’ve enjoyed writing most out of everyone else I’ve ever written. This project took two years and a lot of energy, but even if I never end up finishing another season (though I hope to, and I’ve calendared and outlined s3, so it’s on my docket), I don’t regret writing this one.

If I hit s3, it’s gonna be kind of a weird season to write, because Deb gets more screen time but the Skinner case isn’t nearly as interesting as either the ITK or the BHB were, and her emotional barometer over the course of the season is a lot more level. There’s just a lot less for me to fill in in s3 than in any other season. That said, there’s still stuff for me to work with. Her behavior toward Quinn is interesting, because once Yuki plants the seed of distrust in her mind it takes a long time for her to be comfortable with him, and I think it’d be interesting to talk about that more in the context of having been betrayed by Moser and Doakes, both of whom were people she was close with. There’s obviously the stuff about her impending aunthood and what that means for her, and what she thinks about Dexter marrying Rita and having a kid (especially with her shitty romantic life). I think her relationship with Anton will be interesting too— he was my favorite of her boyfriends, and I have some scenes in mind for him, especially after he was attacked. There’s an obvious bond Deb could form with him over having been victimized herself, and I do really want to write a scene where she tells him about Brian Moser, two years after the fact. And then there’s her (well-deserved, hard-earned) promotion.

And that’s that. Thanks for reading, if anyone actually got this far in this monstrosity of a post.


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